(inspired from a 16th century Mughal school painting found in Maurice Dimand’s, Indian Miniatures.) It is the year 1575. Dastan i-Amir Hamza rules India. Persian & Hindu elements appear side by side. One fat assed bird catcher walks east of the painting With no bird or cage. A goatherd and his mistress watch their goats…
The word was somber. What it might have meant, its origin and weight, uncertain under shade as the dark face below the ratified sombrero. Eyes it gave the lie to overshadowed where sun wheels higher than missing trees. The hoopoo’s lim downcurving bill complements the Old World crest, flamboyant color in the unitary sun. Signs…
I You lie in the arms of the snow falling outside the window. You looked out a long time, then lay down. I ask if you are cold. You are. Your body gives off the only light, the bones reflecting the bare bulb in the room of your life whose door is locked. * * *…
Praise to thee great Allah, For carving my beloved Pure as the sand of Mecca, Rarer than the rose rarest. But Allah, Why you make her princess Beyond reach of servant Rasheed? The suitors are at the palace gate Hankering after my love-bird. Her father the Khaleef Hath proclaimed- Let eet bee Who touches the…
No water drops over the lashed edge to ease the dry socket. The pale-veined year dies slower than a nerve, will not congeal. Each morning its lid thickens a hairbreadth, locks go limp as house plants, the tenants disappear indoors. Through film curtains they watch the ice cap creep down where a thin creek turns…
The light settles on your face, white crumbs circling your mouth. You sweep it off the lapels and shoulder-straps of the dead you’re dreaming of. You sweep it from the dress you will marry in. You could gather it like dust, add water and make a loaf you’d die from, and having digested your own…
Sunday: broken teacups to replace the brassiere; the old folks have too much to mull over. I guess I’ll cry for them when it seems as though the crying’s good. Monday: old sots in the willows — the dog food will probably last a year, with caution and a fork without tines. Tuesday: break your…
Two clocks out of synch watch faces of night drift by. One face, a lacquered saint, dredged up from a trunk, wrapped in virgin wool, black robes of justice trapped in the vault of a bank. An 18-karat guarantee of stainless steel and peerless dentistry, though you’d have to pry the mouth open to discover…
Your eyes float like sun grains through their light, pollinating the air — with idiots? If they graze and go, the same wind that brought them, blows them away, the same hand. Returning, they will appear as an orange in the sky, the segments as windows, the focus sharper, more acute. In them, I have…
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