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For My Russian Grandmother
by
Larry Levy


My deep spring, my well, my source,
water without bitter,
air without dust or cloud.
I wander nameless streets toward your dark room, your doorway, your window and trailing ivy.
In my sleep I wander still--
your name, your mirror.

In your sleep you visit me,
call my Yiddish name,
offer macaroons and tea,
touch absently
each of my bruised knuckles,
the buttons on my sleeve.

 
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