Like a cypress to wind’s divine rupture, 

all clichés turned

                 maroon, had been sleeping 

on stubborn heart. — When will it 

                 rain 

outside my window? Linear slave 

to desire’s whims & furry 

                 tint. Underpinned deemed 

convictions important. 

Had asked him, grasp my heart for 

      a while in your  palms — while 

  I journey without it.

On the hills of sound 

every purple blossom in Brooklyn 

blamed: foolish

    girl whose black hair is wrath 

                  of unknown galaxies 

how dare she give her     heart away. 

Heedless cat, huma, people called

lament indignation — like a cypress 

to wind’s divine rupture. 

Don’t know when blessed wind willed 

                 hair to revel in anti-modernity.  

Debase echos of self 

                 against self. 

There is so little 

that reminds me…… 

of not you. 

Merciful vicinities shook 

neighbor’s trees, tulips free 

                 of its pollen, 

crawled inside red tulips — and hid 

my face there  — for forever.

Cats that are too bold get hurt 

like humans, he said. 

It must not be true. If you are not bold, 

time will 

         not rupture into      shepherd’s petals 

blessed rain on nafs 

to obliterate 

                  — ego dreams.  

Land scapes, tableaus 

beyondness — in one last breath 

of a thousand sensical encoded

 eroded lines of love

 adrift Tora Bora. 

Dear Farida ( III …  )

May I drift 

              where I belong, 

indite 

  where I belong. 

Will never 

                 write 

encoded morse poetry 

of love 

                 after long. When will it 

rain admits fog 

   outside my window: eclogue

— my dear friend

trees and clouds find

             somehow  

fragments 

                 boughed like eyebrows 

                 of eternity, alright for now.