When I was much younger, i lived in Jerusalem, teaching english on the side to both arab and jewish kids. After evening market, i used to go up on Jerusalem’s white stoned rooftops to fall asleep. I just found this little poem i wrote on a napkin way back then. Still feels true, so as we weren’t able to take our trip to Jerusalem this year, nice to still have her poems on crumpled napkins, in my heart, and on my skin and in my bones some how, as well as many friends who are still there, all of whose voices are alive to me as poems on napkins!

From these ancient domed moon touched white stone rooftops
another young man falls asleep…
on his skin, maccadamean nut scent, cumin, paprika
and all the people’s food’s fragrances, like voices, settle into night.
when i wake up, i hope i’m old like you friend, lover, inexhaustible hope-er;
for if we die in our sleep
the alarm clock won’t go off for anyone
and the violins and trumpets we dreamed of as floating above us,
will fall to earth and be engraved
in these endless rolling whitestone rooftops,
as a young man’s bones.
But, for now, moon is a blanket of sheer white light
illuminating us all throughout the night.