March 2018

Back to Issue 3


By Gershon Maller

I hang by this thread of belief
swaying in moonlight toward
the edge of the known world
to shape the diagonal of my 
geometry that circles its beginning.
I am the centre of my sensibility 
below eaves alive with hordes of minutiae 
blinded by desire for artificial light; 
a mere quivering will shiver
the web of my perceptions to
signal a flight wreck, a fleck of life 
spun quickly into final chrysalis;
as if by weaving death from life 
I am woven in the image of my maker.