Untitled 10/11/97

My God!
but all the poetry that's written now is of the
sea; from those who cry and never comprehend, so that
the depth of my emotion is washed out within a pale light
of television
and the moon.

Evocative words like echo-locate play out on the sand,
a caress of human lovers bound in land/and I'm
shut off from my Israel -
other poets greedy
for the tide.

(a lasting high)