The Sweetness of Sand


Have you placed your face in the sands of Babylon?
to smell the sweet molasses of Genesis
awakening the cries of flogged women
arrogant men in the jingle of
muffled screams and incarnadine rivers
to dip your hands in the Euphrates
if the withered woman under the date palm is right:
a thousand angels tears fill up the dry basin
to revive the pathetic dove feathers that slowly submerge
so they will be vibrant as they drown
the cry of a baby camel
when it is separated from its mother
unheard by the deaf who can hear.
the same cry for every
wind that carries the eulogies of sorrow
shroud, after shroud, after shroud, after

"where are my shining suns?"

amidst the ventricular telephone wires
and cobbled coke cans
listen for the sobbing of fledglings gathered around his grave
listen for the man who cries
Ask me, Ask me, Ask me, before you lose me
collapsing the hollow minarets

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