s.
Ben-Toy
The Psalm of the Shutters
Slit
zinc shutters,
hot as annor,
radiate
ten white
lines on the dim walls, write
a prayer
so exact
it is light; the opened shutters sway
wide,
ordinary
hours trek
out like fighters,
and back.
Oh citadel
rotten with sun!
Jerusalem awaits
the tranced afternoon
that ambers each
tree branch, or glass pane, within reach,
the brown children scattering a fountain
that juggles, winks and lives
under a spell,
out of dust a yellow-crested hoopoe's dive
toward mountains
folded in haze.
What is not lost gives
rise to soft praise.
