David cries little tears
of glass, raining onto celestial tapestries:
stars that corrupt the sky
like pinpoint screams, punctured
by iron spiders.
Molotov cocktails breathe to
the tempo of dystopia
and lust and human venom,
whose twisted instruments are breaking glass
and gasping footsteps.
Torahs are like cattle brands and
six-point stars are jaundiced badges
that whisper prophesies of ashes burning holes
in Polish snow and gas stumbling from perforated mouths
like pale refugees from a train.
Shattered glass pieces dance in the twilight,
animated by the nodding heads of flames –
metronomes feeding on menorahs.
They dance ponderous and graceful steps,
and laugh incandescent smiles at David
who lies among the stars
whispering crumpled prayers that sound like
a trillion bricks through a flame smudged window.
