Looking Forward

A new poem for Hanukkah and Advent
Wisdom does not court shadow,
nor marled truths of its inhabitants
who lose their loss in philosophy,
who scent death at eventide
when moons subside
and noons are vanished dreams
offering no transfiguration
whose lantern shines the way.
They consume your oxygen,
Bleed your blood and crack the bone's resolve,
their insight glimpsed in mottled mirrors,
too arbitrary the unveiled sun,
searching the labyrinthine heart
where oil-starved lamps lay broken
in the dust of faded, fond illusion,
unfit for the wedding feast.


