Eve and Adam were created side to side. When their union

became perfect, they turned face-to-face,

and the upper world too (for a moment) was perfect. Every

time, their bodies brought the universe closer to what it had

originally been. That is what they are talking about

Saturday mornings, in their house of

God, that was almost shattered

by a bomb last spring. The walls make

continuous movements back into

one's self: blue green mustard patterns ajar, opening like

eyes on peacocks' tails.

One boy sings the morning

prayer in a clear, high voice in a minor key doubling back to

regain each lost chord. The losing happens

faster than the gathering. When a journalist

is told that photography is forbidden

inside the synagogue, she takes

a small tape recorder out of her purse, thinks, "There--

the sound will be enough; they'll know."

One Native American tribe thought the earth would

fall from the sky without their

songs. So they did not stop

singing.     My body and the bodies

it loves sing long into their dead end.