Go up on the roof at night
in this city of the soul:
God picks up the reed-flute world and blows.
Remember the lips,
where the wind-breath originated,
and let your note be clear.
Don't try to end it.
Be your note.

(from Jelaluddin Balkhi, the Roman)

[ stooping to your clemency. ]

the slow month drifts
glacial, this side of the atlantic
two spies on a ship sail
to your kingdom.
which doesn't exist.
five hours later feet
pounding the cold sidewalk
teeth throbbing, this perfect tennis
morning, any goddamn
excuse to forget
last night would do.
but why the great absurdist,
are you not
satisfied with
my voice and flesh, must you
maggot your way into
my memories too?

[ Awwal tu, Aakhir tu ]

when everything you need is
exactly here. low train-siren,
singing softly
beaten boxcar, trash site,
this side of phaatak.

sometimes in my dreams i still
wander through your brick and stone-concrete
i still lose myself at the oily edges
of your iron sky.
smell your smoke dusty noise
i wear your memories out,
house by house, tree
by tree.
leave my bed and this cold, gladly i
slip inside your heat.

wrap myself in your fingers and faces
coarse laughter, thick voice
running beneath dark clouds
running to the endless sea.

Urban Journeys may have inspired this one.

[ happy birthday ]

If hands could free you, heart,
 Where would you fly?
Far, beyond every part
Of earth this running sky
Makes desolate?  Would you cross
City and hill and sea,
 If hands could set you free?

I would not lift the latch;
 For I could run
Through fields, pit-valleys, catch
All beauty under the sun--
Still end in loss:
I should find no bent arm, no bed
 To rest my head.

- Philip Larkin

[ four ]

morning at five, halogen
bright, smoke dusted
lonely streets
you're fast a-sleeping,
the woman whispers
long and dark in my ear
long darkness that twists your hair,
soft mad darkness
slides across
the lake, breaks.
green filigree patchworked
Michigan skies, vines strangle
spindle fingers
witches cry and spin,
giddy-sick in between
green, lime green
fields, forests, factories.
in this other town.
this other life.
that four letter word
i forget we carried, i forget
selfish flesh, from
years gone by -

love is
the writing sickness.
hard and evil,
greedy.
mine.