The beets are in the bullyard,
The yams are in the shop,
The beef is in the boneyard,
My heart’s about to stop.
Her wonderment, in chanting cries, awaits the insolence of skids,
Stacked up chest-high in back of the sty, beside the box of cherry lids.
The Pope’s in our palladium,
The Lama’s at the Trojan gates,
The Rebbe’s high in fields of rye,
The Cantor sings and spins his plates.
Acres, layers, land and stream—soil, saltwash, shale, and stone.
Chunks of rock and singing wind, the loam and silted mortar’s foehn.
Pilgrims now approach the place,
Where fruited, flowering Owsleys carp,
Whilst I sing-in the din of space,
King David joins me on a harp.
Magi, maiden, man, and babe, a blue ox in the wings,
My glowing winter mindset, like a choir of angels, sings.