Even Earth cannot contain you,

Much less a temple I could build. And yet—

How like Lebanese forests you make me. My lips

Become a roof, my arm a wall;

From Woman you architect a Synagogue.

My love’s wine replaces my unreliable water. Of my

Own reflection I retract husbandry. It is a cistern

Which cannot hold water.

Man and child become Man and

Facing love we all become children.

Limbs rise and fall under white sheets in

Tandem, Man and Woman,

Building a Synagogue, clamoring Hosanna

For the Gardens they have chosen.

Limbs rise to build, if not a monument,

A small and focused flame.

Limbs fall to the warmth of an altar

In defense against that last white sheet, death.