for Arbel
Oh God, yes, our birthdays –
spinning to wave at us again
like two children riding
a too fast merry-go-round.
There’s you… there’s me…
blue dress… red shirt…
And now we feel dizzy,
standing here so long,
spinning there so briefly.
Our horses don’t look back.
Their eyes are cold and pitiless
but the fair’s organ plays on,
forging its joy, mechanically.
And though our arms grow heavy
from waving, though our feet
turn numb as the ground
there’s still me… still you…
red shirt… blue dress…
to hold on to.
