But Hear the Dissonance 1948–2011
Wind blows an aluminum-can
percussion section;
cars thrum bass.
Mind slices melodies
on the road above
an Arab village—
East Jerusalem jazz
somewhere near
the Green Line
follows time
in the unequal night’s
metronome.
Rising voices
sing independently,
calling to prayer;
not far from here,
The Hill of Bad Council
smokes in the dark,
a whiskey on the table,
thinking of what might
have been had things
turned out differently—
listens to the dissonance,
and sighs for the Angel of History.
—Michael Dickel
© 2015, poem and illustrations, Michael Dickel, All rights reserved
