An ode to Qana

Further than proximate fires
And natal storms
We bury innumerable open hands
into the pollen smell of
unconciousness.

Into the womb of this cold earth.
Hands that no longer seek warmth.
Shut in.

The invisible shadow of missiles lurk
Hungry. Arrogant, cascading on thickets
and thorns.
And a hush falls on yellow eyes,
quiet bodies.

Leaves wilt into shadows of green.
No winds resurrect them. Neither water. The Sun does not sing in them
the galvanic rhythm of seasons.


The black hands of death break
into secret sounds
of a simoom.
And our mouth lies caged in
hypnotic threads
In our ashen breast
whispered into untamed disregard
to,
life
to the earth and the sky.

A poet dies

Sometimes a poet dies
inside.
sudden.
singed in flames
that don’t burn
nor die .

And loses a quiet burial
into the heart of words.
No twilight sings in him
the glory of rebel evenings,
as the dark night sets sail.

The poet shall never see the siesta
of wrinkled suns inside his quiet eyes.

As the book of unattainings recedes
through his clenched hands like
a serpent desert, erasing him.

Nocturne

Let me speak in grasshopper hazes
if you want to be green
Let me fade in the chime of fireflies
if you need to feed on fleeting darkness.
And tell you all there is to know about
arriving storms and earthquakes.

Burn like the soft fiery moon
if you shall lose your way among shadows.
A desertwind if you forget
the tongue of water.
and tell you stories about absent tides.

A raindrop falling quietly
into the kohl lined sea.
A sliver of moisture
wrapped in your silence
forever between petals
and you can sail me to some obscure sound
stringed to the lashes of summer breeze
every night.

Milestones

Weave a sliver sail of Nimbus
In threads of rain
To drift
the ocean of flute-winds

Nail rings,
coarse camel beads
of melting twilights
compassing the backwoods
of forgotten touches
traced on my skin.

Kohl lines of sodden seas
knead me a moon
a soft fire
in slender slicefulls
half lit and naked
drowsed in black and white dreams
beneath the mouth of night.

As the wind slips out of your hair
kiss me a dream
hovering around my brows
till I sink in the dark alleys
of barren sleep
in your eyes.

Nina

Swansongs cusp from
windswept
shadows of butterfly wings.

Snowed into the arms of
stoic ashes.

Burn a little each night.

If some grasshopper winds
after all has burnt.
I recall a barren sleep
To my scalded eyes.
My dreams shall wait
the cascading dusk
of your lips.