Niqqud

A real reader would find

the vowels expendable,

mere diacritic spoor

on a path worn right

to left by sacred sense,

but I still cling to handle

and doorknob, lurch

stone to stone without

seeing the stream, pick

at each spot until it scars—

paw print, dead-end road,

bullet hole, ball falling

down the stairs, distant

planet, dropped crutch—

I can’t even remember

their names, except shva,

which sticks somehow:

a dot on a dot like a colon

preceding explanation,

though it falls un-followed

here, un-sound or nearly,

deferral, demurral, rest or

restlessness, catch in

the throat at a question

I can’t begin to ask.