Looking Forward

A 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.