We didn’t go to Mea-She’arim on Saturday
because they throw stones at cars there on the Sabbath.
We wanted to see the locals, certainly,
but only to look in a respectful way. We had not expected
to make contact. But crossing the road you didn’t notice
that you had dropped your book.
I picked it up, ran after you.
Not knowing how to address you, I touched your sleeve.
You turned to me, took the proffered book
without a word, and looked at me. Your eyes,
beneath your strange hat, between your side-curls,
showed no expression. You turned away.
Was your garment unclean now? Did the volume
need to be purified? I was only
returning your book. We had not expected
to make contact.