I’ve tired of this place. The days are short,
the nights are cold, I’m cold
all night and daytime too.
It didn’t used to be this way. Months ago
the skies were warm with
promise and the sun beat stronger than
it ever did in New York, beat down on me to match
the rate of my own heart.
I don’t know what happened. I don’t know
when things turned cold. I know
that the sun is the heart of Jerusalem;
in winter I exist on defibrillation.
Jerusalemites don’t know how to deal
with winter. They close the roads for two inches of snow.
I don’t know how to deal with this cold
light that burns instead of warms,
this "they" and "I" that have lodged themselves
in my throat.
Winter turns the buildings
rat gray, the color of New York
snow. I miss the summer sun that cast
the stone to gold.
I miss the thought that Jerusalem is home.
