NO ONE BUT A BLIND POET

No one but a blind poet
could in fact compare
an eyeball with a sun.

Dipping his feather
in the pitch-dark
he writes in his journal:

this morning I resolved
to steal fire
from my lover's eyes.

At the kitchen door
she turned her gaze upon me.
My wings melted.

Again I settled for a salad and an omelet.

רַק מְשׁוֹרֵר עִוֵּר

רַק מְשׁוֹרֵר עִוֵּר