Zion

Outside my boyhood temple stood a sign
I misread as “Save Palestinian
Jewelry.” Now whatever its design,
my own came out casting gold medallions,
poured out a perplexity of bright beads,
sun-dazzled bangles and metallic ores
so molten in the molds of my own needs
they could not keep the saving they stood for.

Later, when I was old enough to hold
that error and the terrible traction
of errors hammered into old errors
I hungered for old crucibles of gold
that smelted out pieces of pure Zion
not as bullets, but as decorative wear.