G. E. Schwartz

It always seems to be night—our floatingThrough darkness, the clouds parted likeCurtains woefully. We take to twilightLike children on the road back fromSomewhere, past places that are scarcelyThere even in sheer daytime. LackingTrysts, travelers weave their own bareSteps out amongst the fores

Seeing this we fall to our knees. WeWouldn’t be willing to stop beingHuman he became willing to stopBeing wholly of light approachableTo become human and die as aHelpless creature died in thatJewish rite so that its drenchingBlood could besprinkle in itsDeep cleansing. How can weUnderstan