If we must understand the world and dangle it from our fingers like a porcelain mug,
then our eyes will always hook its angled handles, our desires bowed and arrowed, tabled and listed, slapping each other like the numbered tiles guiding through the prayers the congregation integer by integer,
and we will act most madly to discover ourselves in the counting, pulled along by motive motors like perps weighing gains and losses the way the police psychologist would have told them to.
But if we needn’t know, and let the cup fall, we find all the stories like neat chainmail cannot wall off the bolt that slew history when she was a maiden —
That’s right! She has been only a ghost: The UN’s foul choice came to answer the Zionist voice which in turn was born to a people torn from the land to carry truth forlorn in galuth since G-d’s sacred domain was by Romans profaned, holy tablets displaced long after deserting the wastes of Sinai which never would have happened if history weren’t dead because —
One morning, rather than rattle against his own meninges or dwell on a decade’s pain, the young Hebrew, abandoned in Egypt to rot, somehow chose in a mind bound not by money, biology, or electrons, to ask two others about their long faces, and set in motion history, the story marching from the mystery behind his eyes, all explanations slain, dead as shards of pottery.