Best Poem of B.A. Newmark

Ruchama, In Her Worn Nightgown
It has taken so long to arrive here, late with
dust in my shoes
and my pockets
turned out like some clown in a silent film.

Sometimes it was like
Rowing across the lake where all the fish were named for saints
And feeling like you were not a tourist,
(in other words feeling smug)
and then . . .
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In A City Of Red Ideas
In the old days,
the fallen gods,
retreated on the back
of the same white jackass that
they had ridden into town on.
Like Shabtai Zvi, that false Messiah.
On some manic high,
called god.
Saw god.
Was god.

Afterwards people talked, they said
idly wringing out their wash . . .
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