So little cause and illusions of meaning withdraw.
O little cause of timetorn torntime motes in time,
Little can they know trapped in that time,
In that abyss of history when wordclaws
Tear at their throats, when an alphabet–hell-sent
To taverns of steaming samovars, hell bound–
Lies in wait, not knowing when, how, why peril may
Elbows into the marketplace, jostles the remnant
Crowds–Moishe the Barber, resident now of silence,
Apostle of naked chins, shaves the peasant faces,
Unbeards the Jews who have strayed–
Simon the Merchant mans three carts at once–
Edifice of fur hat, hill of velvet frock, pyramid of
                                                        and in New York
Flower" reads the comics, swings a baton at
Carnegie Hall,
On his motorcycle rushes as if tomorrow can be
Rushes in his sidecar to the latest fire, has faith that
Culpabilities are temporary alliances with darkness,
Antipathies slated to be erased from the moral terrain,
Rounds the corner on the glittering, unstoppable
wheels of 
    better days
On a roll, on the march, speeding through expectant,
    doused streets–
Little causes: skullcaps, sideburns, leaning cottages
on chicken legs–
If we forget–lest we forget–O scattered sheep exiled
to lost roads,
Nuggets of piety cling to their coats, on their brows
they glow–O
Guardian light–on the floor a child writhes, the
rebbe’s in the stove–
Slumber, landsleit doze–long live this drone,
                                                        this winterdark of
dregs . . .