A Souvenir of Tasteness

Everything which is life, is made of a thin layer
of an approximation to confusion.
Both our fingers, interlocked

Make a souvenir of tasteness,
to relish and delight in an embarrassment
limited to only you and me.

On this bench, we browse through slow photos,
sea-salt drenched-photos, moving sideways
from your cuddle to my inability;

words, tongues, all tied up in that which is
of greater possibility to please. As summer marches
down off the shore,

traveling the thick old stones of Neve-Zedek.
This is Tel-Aviv, in the first light of morning,
encompassed in everything which is Life.

Crude and coarse, as a dozing bulldozer,
I roll past antiquities of renewed sentimental value;
So clumsy of me,

my ears are as fearful as a little child is of words,
long complex sentences of few words,
dreadfully limping atop wine-stained lips.

Damn all these foolishness!
The train moves fastest as it slides out of a turn.
Still, you turn to astonish me.

Bare and defenseless I wash in your light
as the frights pass
and the glitters of past water my forehead,

to ease the temperature. The guilt of knowing who I am.
There now, it slowly comes
as a smooth breeze carried on the wings of passing seagulls.

Then do I realize, only too late,
how I wish those fingers will never let me go.