Sunday, November 20, 2011


Put your mouth on this inch
of wool while I vanish, for the word

is brief, and leaves
nothing but an itch behind.

Find your free hand to that part
of throat that beats and repeat

after me: the heart is a bass
and the blood a hook that pulls

it out; la la. We feel homesick
in our skin; repulsed, as if

there stood some direction towards
which we could go instead.  Al qalb

yaqlab. Dear Lord, we itch, like well
tailored animals, for an inner

cilia, and vomit wool
-strokedly and ecstatic.