Prodigal Son

PRODIGAL SON

I, returning
from flights

and railroad
compartments

Dark tunnels

Drawn blinds

Making music

from nothing

——Iron wheel

Squealing on
a metal rail

•

A cloud flew

and profound
figures grew

from nothing

•

Returning, I

high above a
worsted coat

Green tinted
tar-pit of a
Black Forest

smoke-plumed

As if a huge
building had
been brought
to its knees

•
Light——these

small points

•

Down below's

the Tel Aviv


Hill of life

•

Crash, crash
by all means


Dead, alive:
•
•
•
I've arrived



© Dan Goorevitch