Fleeing Edges

       Noam Mor

The Faces of my Maws
(searching for sepharim)

Almost always falling, my body's angle acute, its pads and toes unable to grip, declining toward a cleavage, my faltering line.
Not allowing myself to stop.
Sephira waves to me from a ginkgo grove. She bends from her motherhood, hips emphasizing her din as they rock, my assignation.
A lonelytree hangs dispassionately.
Bark burned away and its mottled white and black flesh shimmery. I lean against its decadent bone, a crowd of people creating a panoply of shadows in the declining sun.
Meanderings walking densely.
Trying to consider their pattern and find a breach. A man with thick fingers and scars on his palms slices across my ambiguous and narrow vision, the bowels of our lives encrusted in his skin. I try to grab some of his dust. Through my fingers rush their soil and brittleness.
Approaching unintentionally my diffusion, the shadows move in circuitous speech rearranging without cognizance toward an aim, as if every one of these impermanent relationships are intersecting on the dried tanned earth, heaving waiverings.
They interweave and their glances(their eyes only occasionally look)are intent on passing
as if
as if they move to avoid stepping
move to avoid stepping near me.
Surrounded by a circular grove of ginkgo, I search for a piece of the answer in the pattern of branches radiating outward from the still living trunks covered in a thick hair of broad skirtleaves. Sephira's buttocks cut across my view, flying and lugubrious at the junction of her thigh, a bleary land on the verge of collapse.
Within her bloat her joints narrow and desiccate(With each footfall)
A scar begins upon her iliac crest, crosses like white canvas stretched toward her coccyx, dissipates. I try and speak with her passing head, believing she will give something to me, but her thin and frecklevined hand waves as if it doesn't understand. Just conscious that it was wanted. The passersby do not let me get close(my toe hurts beneath its bandages)my hands remain empty.
        I must go. I must continue.
Not here, not here at all.
I try to get attention by clicking my camera in anyone's direction. Who will be the first to wonder why, begin a dialogue? Who? Hello? So bloated with ifs, still unable to find a single way
as if the air were ifs.
Sitting on ginkgo leaves, I lay my head in my hands and mewl, not for those who died, it doesn't matter, but for the passersby.
It doesn't matter.
Mawkish for myself in this space
Unable to comprehend who I am.
Adam Auilah.
(and me?)
I am Adam and I am Kadman.

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Image: Mica Scalin
December 2003

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About the Fate of
the State of Israel"

An interview with four former Israeli Intelligence Directors

Are the Ten
Carved in Stone?

Joel Shurkin

Run Like the Wind
Dan Friedman &
Jay Michaelson

Temima Fruchter

Fleeing Edges
Noam Mor

Josh Goes to Services
Josh Ring

Our 400 Back Pages

David Stromberg

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From previous issues:

The Nature of Authority
Dan Friedman

Go as Far as Possible
Jay Michaelson

Not Mentioned
Hal Sirowitz