qawwal, strip mine me an evanescence of camphor
blossoming its ashen italic in an umbilical worship
a warship at the midriff of that arrogant tombolo
this boy who grew up: a pier of sharks; a debut of eels
he still loves as a muezzin who contorts his inflections
between a goldsmith and a glassblower; that fevered
dactyl limning his throat venerated into a bulletproof
alchemy. a doorway is always open within us; a palindrome,
that glowing amnesia; a pigeon scale, a many-feathered
wilderness. the puzzle of inheritance left me an undulation
of sundew spliced into the acerbic asphalt of the bombed city
the chagrin left us many things; a hole in the opaque roost
a night pregnant with twin rainstorms; we walked for miles
past the police ready to confiscate the reddened rialto of a beating
heart that coughed up stains of ache-drawn arpeggios; to never
touch; to never travel the torture of that crestfallen cavity
he held my hand and the rest of the way was a small light bulb
it wavered over each suspicion of echoes; garbled a cette fois
the morning after as the curfew doubled over the death toll
like a hastily pulled tatami mat over an anthill; we heard the rattle
of unflinching trains running as a cortege
of anonymous pallbearers. sleep is an amateur death;
he whispered into
the cherry-grave of the last cigarette and tossed it out aimlessly
the slag shot through the air - flyspecks of bruised firefinches
when i left that bedroom filled with battlewounds; i was
an unkempt anticipation; pebble and crystal;
a backboneās blueprint
we never got the courage to ask our dead if they slept better now
or if it is true that it is the world awoken that is teeming with nightmares
annaxmalina
dededos
2087
izzy806
theartofmadeline
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