Pass the divided moon
tonight, before Friday,
Shabbat. Break it over
our bowl of green crop.
Bite bitter blacks,
fruit of the wood
whose gnarl and twist
pruning wrought for years.
There was not a time
when you, unheavy,
could clatter
the glut to market,
nor I, back
in the grove, heave
mine to the press,
unstumbling;
part them, squeeze
them in cloth,
so down it drops,
viscid,
to their pool
of first blood.
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