Mikha'El Dan

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small rain, cold rocks

On the face of the water moved the spirit,
time divisible into tiny eternities.
The sun strikes upon this mud,
showing us how close we are to the edge.
Beyond the reach of warm milk,
clutching a briefcase,
someone has been here before.

small rain, cold rocks,
the arts have no soundness, charity runs dry.
And we the bones grow dust and ash,
the golden rhythm broken,
and all this comes to an end and it is not again to be met with.
An old man sits in a doorway, squinting.

Mikha'El Dan is a PhD candidate in psychology and a father of three whose work explores the intersections of psyche and language. A published poet featured in Neologism Poetry Journal, Book of Matches and Glass Poetry Press, he bridges the analytical and the lyrical. He lives and writes in California.