Jerusalem, the Gnat

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The gnat,

strained at,

strained for,

and through

no strainer

find

 

the truth.

The whole world,

it seems,

spreads its tiny wings and flies,

but flies gather.

No tape I have.

 

Beastly flies upon

beast

and breast

and best

of all,

the milk,

and Jerusalem

stands

quietly at

her stanchion.

 

And no gnat

I find

just the sweep

of her gentle tail

to the west,

to the bank

to Gaza once more

I think.