I don’t get involved in my neighbors’ lives

/, Blesok no. 86/I don’t get involved in my neighbors’ lives

I don’t get involved in my neighbors’ lives

The Soul Is Africa
The Pears Are Walking Backward
The Ceiling Flew Up
House Plants

You can’t go on living without the art of substitution.
Mud replaces water and so the forest grows.
To substitute for yourself means to stop living:
once again I lose my love, once again I buy a dog.

In this way I’ve had more than one dog
and more than one house, not to speak of umbrellas.
How can I live; will I find another love?
If only each thing could substitute for itself.

The new dog’s eyes are glued to me
as if it weren’t possible to part or abandon.
I have a friend who waited 24 hours for her lover’s train
until the world counted its way onward.

Houses are loyal to themselves until they crumble.
Now I understand why those who believe in lies die for their religion.
Whoever thinks like that will never improve on the art of substitution.
I tell myself: put your foot forward into the impossible.

AuthorNurit Zarchi
2018-08-21T17:22:46+00:00 November 6th, 2012|Categories: Poetry, Blesok no. 86|0 Comments