B. Z. Niditch

Søren Kierkegaard

Sit with me
on the threshing floor
with Abraham and Isaac
hear the silence of God
on tables of stone

Søren, you are trembling
in frenzied cold
with escaped wisdom
underlined notes
possessed by the unattainable

On Bus No. 2

The sun
has passed away
in fringes
of shattered glass
from the withered windowpane
spins around
to someone
closest to you
and nails against
sides of arms and fingers
a white dress
and a black coat
look in despair
for a body
prayers do not return

Only torn red feet
where you sit
hiding from yourself
on the floor down below
trying to forget
and to believe in something