THE YAD VASHEM MEMORIAL

by

Timothy Victor Richardson

Jerusalem

Morality is felled by the slice of his hand.

In thousands of glittering eyes his barbs design,

he hotly shifts the Zodiac like cattle.

Locked faces ride onto your psychic rails

you cannot answer because you cannot save;

the filmed solution without solution glares.

Some ‘lucky’ stars allowed to go on burning

in racks of flesh whose eyes fix asking stares,

between whose lashes billowing plumes tease.

Blood stutters from the heart surprised by silence:

the numberless screams a field of corpses lacks,

bones junked like crosses, dust blown in God’s face;

the dead, buried in air, bury the air.

From thought to thin thought, though you strive to see,

the prospects blind you, strand your sanity.