To leap higher than Kadour Ziani,
not as high, however, to that

of a quickly rising fire-tornado in Brazil,
dimishing quickly into thin air.

Fire within this heart of mine,
my rib cage expanding outward, as if

long-in-the-tooth. My refractive index
is changing—though the "real me" is

already invisible—to that of air,
and my body is not absorbing nor reflecting

light any longer. What else should I
speak of that would seem fantastical

to the common man? This, as if one's diary
knows what one is writing about

on its pages, or as if labeling a hurricane
the name of a human being is not

a peculiar thing.



Every day is shaken like rigor mortis

only of the eye

Shakes maniacally like the dryer
in the narrow hallway

Numb effects on me
like walking through the neighbors' backyard,
butterflies scattering in every direction

but I'm Still
even when I'm Moving

Thick air of summer
enough to sizzle

Ventilation of yellow evening sky

The faint echo of nothing
wanting to fade,
to give way to darkness

There is no void of which to speak

I marvel at the sky, Chinablue,
golden minimums forcing a
shiver, a silver hue

I've felt this beautiful stirring
when my eyes rained
with a full grasp of heartache

A lonely valley
is instrumental
becomes like a theatrical audience

Vast fractal memories of Ghazal
the kinship of Time sinking slowly

We sat together
as if in the next century

My heart, like a painted snowflake
in the middle of summer

I'm eager, aimless
as midnight will soon come,
kissing all of our heads softly

The clock on this white-faced wall
has a distinct heartbeat
like everything else

Outbreak of mood
To keep your eye on it
before it vanishes

The bedsheets are wrinkled here,
laminated by an intrinsic moment

All escapes me now
in this new late morning blush
as I long to split sleep into
fragments of black silk

The moon tugs
yet is growing smaller

If the days get shorter
let the night hang from us

We'll put the moon in a flower-vase
with the hope that it sprouts into a new sun