Unfinished Poem

    We live on a holy mountain

    where the crows and the Crown Plaza

    rise higher than our expectations

    and the golden dome is only

    a restored reflection

    of the absolute.

    All night the bodies of prophets

    break out of the clouds

    calling， "Doom， doom."

    Like the carp we bring home

    from the market， our lives

    are wrapped up in newsprint.

    My friend says she'd like to

    cut off her head and let all

    the Jewish history run out.

    We lift weights together

    twice a week to increase

    our bone density.