Your voice, David
comes back to me
from the streets
of the old city,
falls back to me
from that golden place
we believe
ulterior to death.
I see the western wall
cut apart —
in a lustrous white,
a frame of some
undeveloped film,
and the sons of your
sons like shadows
riveted to the ground.
They dig, David
they dig all day long.
Find nothing
but innocent stones.
Seek like they sing,
I hear them, David,
seek like your son
recited by heart
your favorite line —
Oh I looked for him,
but He couldn’t be found.
And they count, David
as you did that night
when you lost your head,
they divagate
for a proof, for a stele,
for an evidence
of your breath.
Numbers pop over the city
like stars, like the shock
of a thousand words.
They enumerate,
subtract from darkness
plates and gates,
thinking they finally
grabbed a date
but no door
ever unlock,
no one excavate
your name.
Your name David,
that windstorm
of rock and myrtle,
that caress I bind
to my palate.
Your name,
upon which
they still divide,
that I — alone
took like semen
or wine to get through
the wars.

Listen, today is a bird,
tomorrow a bait
and the day after
only a tighter cage.
The future is made
of dark little boxes,
full of stones where
you were once
music  — Oh
this need to immure,
mark and kill,
that blood on your hands,
David, was enough
of a tattoo.
Darling, you are not
in the stone,
not in the blood,
you live in the murmur
of water, with me.
Your palms, my thighs,
had the same tint of red
that night, when the angels
passed from roof to roof.
The wind went howling
through you,
the moon ate
the dark,
and blue notes
splashing my skin
pierced your heart.
The wind said —
Your voice, David
almost killed me
and I daresay
it’s not just my work.
I replied — Come,
Darling, put that
pebble back in the brook,
leave the arch
in its cobalt room of air,
there are no bonds
except music,
no foundations
but your songs,
that city of yours
is the breath
of the Word.

So they say I broke
your throne, David,
they, who never
bent a string
on a harp,
never got tired
of wars and burials,
sitting deaf on the crest
of the globe
fat as larvae.
But we were more
more terribly naked,
like overheated animals
cooling their bodies
against the stars
when music poured
out of nowhere.
We lowered ourselves
into the sound
as into a sacred bath.
Oh David, once one
has heard God,
what is the remedy?
It seems
everything to be
is song.
Cities, tombs, rivers.
Only Songs
of one Song.