A sky that doesn’t falter, clean of smoke                                                                       of ash
again blueing the foundation of my memory                               that soul psalm, Barchi Nafshi
from all those loves                                                                      I held like trampled flowers
that fell between the pages of a book
 
                                                                                                               Please don’t judge me.
all I am worth are two teeth of a tortoise-shell comb,                                          from Dohenet, 
a shoe crushed like a mouth without questions,                                                 or names bundled
and borne on the back of a camel                                                       dropped at the post-master
 
 
at port-side customs; they didn’t die for my sake Nor did I
die for their suffering;                                                        the day your womb abandoned me
to love that comes in lover’s smoke                                                                                    a vow
so unwise to cry                                                                  for me. Neither am I alone
 
 
                                                               in these lost worlds. What we can understand
here is a dried flower between the pages of a book                                           that will return
                                                                                                         without the root to survive: