here add the color name,
the adjective

light dots connect into a city, grains of sand
into the airport's color code. there is a level,
a floor on which a teen has placed two candles

to direct the air traffic. and tonight he succeeds:
obedient air grows into a column to support
the wings, so that they sing, they sing "aliyah,"

as the plane disappears. because there are no countries
to which you can ascend. this word had dived too deep
into the earth, fed on its white, fat fishes.

now it is casting nets, for the guard shakes his head
like a buoy. when he snoozes, he's seeing one-way
air corridors - the planes hanging mid-air

as votive offerings, the golden nails of rockets
driven into the dome, where one can construct
the firmaments at will, while below them a

(here add the color name, the adjective)
heart contracts, unclenches, trembles, moves.

israel, eritrea

the state is not displayed on yellow screens
of desert. it is written to oppose.

against the moving dunes there is a law
forbidding to cut down fruit trees. law's root

grows through the sand like a giant paper vein
softened by water. the state gets all clogged up

until it dries under the desert sun,
hardening into sculpture. state's sinews are all paper,

screens, night vision devices scanning the desert
from which they come, uprooted, not to be

grafted into the orchards. they will be mixed
with sand that's hidden under overstretched

layers of soil: its tambourines, its drums,
percussion, marching music. they'll be strewn on sand

- the state views them from the inside of a grain
though even from a stalk's height it would notice

the olive trees torn down, the yellow points of fire
under the lemon's roots, the palm trees cut to pieces

jerusalem of gold

what does a bomb see: rain, city of sand,
root of the temple. a bomb aims at its cleft,

at the white scar bisecting the courtyard into
the male and female. the rain falls, waters down

thin ashen line of the exterritorial
passage for muslims. the grains of sand burst out

from the joints of limestone facades just like
points from domino tiles. now try to add them up,

but substract the explosion, the state and terror. substracting
keep the sum fixed, as the city of gold

spends itself, one small coin after another. far smaller
than I can name. smaller than fibers of paper

in the wall's chinks, each fiber with its own light train
and shaky stacks of white tiles, the rattles made of bone.