Love, we are a small pond.
We are, each of us, our own prisoner. We are locked up in our own story.
Sometimes tradition is a way of keeping going.
Can it be I am the only Jew residing in Danville, Kentuchy, looking for matzoh in the Safeway and the A & P?
One way of ending the poem is to turn it back on itself, like a serpent with its tail in its mouth.
To build is to dwell.