`

In the anxiety of the morning breeze
as yet the sun has not comforted.
In the panic facing the future, this day
The stomach flutters its twittering familiar song.

So I rush to the sanctuary of the daf-theblatt, the ink-filled page
Cut vertically into three sacred columns with the holy tongue.
Never mind the logic defies my brain, never mind the pettiness of the topic, the hairsplitting
arguments, the local irritations of my colleagues. . .

Here I find some comfort from the guilt of being alive this morning-
A survivor; son-of-survivor who also wonders why?
What stellar sub-lunar influence could have orchestrated this providential effect?
Whereby I rather than he or she, should still be here to complain?

Here, embedded in the textuality and business of the page after daily page of Talmud,
obscure laws millennia-aged like fine wine, there is relief.
Deflected as the object of examination is, away from my own issues the day ahead, looming so large as it does.

Daily I must face the same mediocrity and wreckage of the past, the betrayals and powerlessness over the very self and its desire

So this comes as an act of grace, divine inattention for a few moments each day as we, a group struggle with the text in the early hours over coffee, before squandering another day in triviality.

Still seeking economic relief, comfort and avoiding the courageous, the decision that will make my life meaningful . . . Living up to my own so-called morals and values.

Still avoiding the painful act of disciplined writing like giving birth, of exercising, of donating more time to the undeserving.

Here, buried in the text there is a momentary respite from the looming day ahead, here, in the company of scholars.