p o e m s  

s a m u e l  m e n a s h e 


O Lady lonely as a stone
Even here moss has grown


One hand cold
One hand hot
One turns pages
One does not
As I lie in bed
Reading poems. . .
Remembering how
You love this one
I’ve come to now
My arms are numb


Feet east
Head west
Arms spread
North and south
He lies in bed
At the mouth



Take any man
Walking on a road
Alone in his coat
He is a world
No one knows
And to himself
Yet, when he wanders most
It is his own way, certain
As spheres astronomers note
In their familiar motion


Death awaited
In this room
Takes its time
I stand by
Your deathbed
Making it mine


Flowers, not bread
Cast upon the water—
The dead outlast
Whatever we offer


©Samuel Menashe

from THE NICHE NARROWS New and Selected Poems
Talisman House, Publishers, P.O. Box 3157,
 Jersey City, N.J. 07303-3157; 
with permission


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