Gunnery practise dubs the Judean hills.
Anna Ticho stopped painting for many years.
Her eyes a still small voice, eroded

For him it is always a Shabbat
of words. Fire is forbidden:
even the memory of ashes.

My voice bends over your neck.
There, to the small of the back
mouth mutes its touch.

The air is measurable. Clocks
bell, publishing hour on hour
each other’s truth, one two, three four: