An arrow in the heart of the gonorrheal sun
that falls into the sea over Tel Aviv
discharging its greasy trail. A powerful red.
And mother in the cramped kitchen.
A small painting. You write on the postcard, send it
to the land of Goshen before you, from and to yourself. Go,
you say, go, dove, away from here.
Through the frame-like window:
the melting seconds of your longing
in the brown of a military shirt and pants
trickle backwards to the ground, like a cruel
clock, young soldier, in the palm of a hand.