The donkey-skinned pair God ordered
Moses to remove before treading holy soil.
Did he sit down to do so, or perhaps
lean on his staff, bend over unsteadily
to pull them off, the sun’s rays already
reaching him from below the horizon,
his eyes closing like fists, his hair caked
with mud? Was he dying to know how long
he’d been dying, but afraid to ask? If he’d
laughed to lighten the moment, he’d have
been alone with his laughter, heading toward
a grave full of slush and snow – I read it could
have been snowing! At this time in my own
little life, busy getting older, I’m willing to
accept anything too, and so on and so forth.
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