Saturday, January 22, 2011


The stolen vote sinks into footnotes.
How many canisters?
How many inky fingers?
When will Bluetooth courtships become a threat?
The lesson expels
an age’s worth
like a wadi song
whistled at the weekend.
Weren’t you asking
about Eveline? And that short
scarab bracelet,
she wore at Philae? The tension
builds to dehydration. Deftly, Eveline
rummages for a moist pad
to dab away
the surface veneer. A damask
curtain emerges, a hotel room at Aswan.
I wanted to ask Omar when the souk
was open. He had just landed
a bundled
month of magazines
in the stairwell.
The sketch artist whipped
the Kolinsky round
through dry ink. Is that it?
“Wait, effendi. Look.
It floats to the surface. Medium.
Light. Sweet.”

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