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  • I suppose I should be packing
    for Israel. I leave in a couple of days
    for a place at war.
    This is a place at war
    only not right here where I can see or hear or feel
    its shuddering blasts
    the way my daughter can.

    How do you pack for such a place?
    Where do you put your fear? Your sadness? Slipped inside your joy that
    soon you will see your children?
  • Out the window songbirds empty the feeders
    as though hunger hounds them, hunts them down.
    I ladle more seed to them. It doesn't help.

    Inside this laptop someone I have never met but call friend
    reveals a gaping agony.
    I invite him to come stay. It doesn't help.

    On the news tonight reporters feast on
    Gaza's endless, heaving pain.
    If I knew how to pray, I would.
    For all of them. But it wouldn't help.

    And so I do what I always do: head outside, stride across the land and then
    out in the car along the empty road until winter's chill and isolation's drone
    slide a mossy sleeve along the reach of me and my rage sloughs away
    to leave me with this:
    just this
    just here
    just now
    and my arms out wide.
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