By: Hanoch Guy

Among the things I forget
is that the living go on,
diminished every day by eighths,
fleeing from survivors
in leaps and bounds.
Getting farther and farther away
from fathers, mothers
and the divine,
who abandoned them.
They do not grieve or sing
for themselves or lost loves.

The living are reduced by halves
by fallen sons, ashen widows,
uncles with strokes.

I sit by the rusting gate
of an old Jewish cemetery.
I look up at the sky
with low clouds,
without a care in the world.