50. Stephen Mead--Against

50. Stephen Mead--Against


The Wailing Wall

tokens are left,

impressions of

fingers.

In the distance

grow olive trees.

They hold only air.

How long can people do the same?

When belief ceases, a surface

touched, touched too often, all

eyes look through, become ghosts.

Then contacts rare, an apology.

There's been too much waiting,

too much unsaid.

Rage hungers, changes places

with disappointment, some mis-

understanding recognized,

resigned to.

Contempt is tender, sick

of hatred, reckoning,

temporary forgiveness.

Is there nothing else to do?

Establish some kind, cognizant

silence.  First stand, next kneel,

shadow-shaped.

This brick's loaded with such,

still surviving, resolved,

while the inexplicable

bombs on.

 

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