Desert

The cities dissolve, and the earth is a cart loaded with dust 
Only poetry knows how to pair itself to this space. 

No road to his house, a siege, 
and his house is a graveyard. 
   From a distance, above his house 
   a perplexed moon dangles 
   from threads of dust 

I said: This is the way home, he said: No 
   you cant pass, and aimed his bullet at me 
Very well then, I have friends and their homes 
   In all of Beirut I have companions 

Road for blood now—
   Blood about which a boy talked 
   whispered to his friends: 
      nothing remains in the sky now 
      except holes called "stars" 

The city's voice was too tender, even the wind 
would not tune its strings— 
The city's face beamed 
like a child arranging his dreams for nightfall 
bidding the morning to sit beside him on his chair  

They found people in bags: 
   a person           without a head 
   a person           without hands, or tongue 
   a person           choked to death 
   and the rest had no shapes and no names  
       —Are you mad? Please 
             don't write about these things 
A page in a book 
   bombs mirror themselves inside of it 
   prophecies and dust-proverbs mirror themselves inside of it 
   cloisters mirror themselves inside of it, a carpet made of the 
      alphabet disentangles thread by thread 
falls on the face of the city, slipping out of the needles of memory 
A murderer in the city's air, swimming through its wound—
its wound is a fall 
that trembled to its name—to the hemorrhage of its name 
and all that surrounds us—
houses left their walls behind 
         and I am no longer I. 

Maybe there will come a time in which you'll accept 
to live deaf and mute, maybe 
they'll allow you to mumble: death 
            and life 
            resurrection 
            and peace unto you 

From the wine of the palms to the quiet of the desert … et cetera 
from a morning that smuggles its own intestines 
   and sleeps on the corpses of the rebels … et cetera 
from streets, to trucks 
   for soldiers, armies … et cetera 
from the shadows of men and women … et cetera 
from bombs hidden in the prayers of monotheists and infidels … 
   et cetera 
from iron that oozes iron and bleeds flesh … et cetera 
from fields that long for wheat, and grass, and working hands … 
   et cetera 
from forts that wall our bodies 
   and heap darkness upon us … et cetera 
from legends of the dead who pronounce life, who steer our life … 
   et cetera 
from talk that is slaughter  and slaughter  and slitters of throats 
   … et cetera 
from darkness to darkness to darkness 
I breathe, touch my body, search for myself 
   and for you, and for him, and for the others 

and I hang my death 
between my face and this hemorrhage of talk … et cetera 

You will see—
   say his name   
   say you drew his face
   reach out your hand toward him  
   or smile    
   or say I was happy once   
   or say I was sad once    
   you will see:       
      there is no country there 

Murder has changed the city's shape—this stone
              is a child's head— 
and this smoke is exhaled from human lungs  
Each thing recites its exile …   a sea 
           of blood—and what  
do you expect on these mornings except their arteries set to sail  
into the darkness, into the tidal wave of slaughter? 

 
Stay up with her, don't let up  
She sits death in her embrace  
and turns over her days  
              tattered sheets of paper 

Guard the last pictures 
of her topography 
She is tossing and turning in the sand 
in an ocean of sparks 
On her bodies 
are spots of human moans 

Seed after seed are cast into our earth— 
Fields feeding on our legends 
guard the secret of these bloods 
       I am talking about a flavor to the seasons 
       and a flash of lightning in the sky 
 

Tower Square—(an engraving whispers its secrets  
             to bombed out bridges …)  
Tower Square—(a memory seeks its shape  
             among dust and fire …)   
Tower Square—(an open desert  
             chosen by winds and vomited…  
                by them …)  
Tower Square—(It's magical  
          to see corpses move/their limbs  
          in one alleyway, and their ghosts  
          in another/and to hear their sighs …)  
Tower Square—(West and East 
       and gallows are set up—
       martyrs, commands …)  
Tower Square—(a throng 
       of caravans: myrrh 
          and gum Arabica and musk  
             and spices that launch the festival …)  
Tower Square—(let go of time … 
          in the name of place). 

—Corpses or destruction, 
   is this the face of Beirut? 

-- and this 
   a bell, or a scream? 
-- A friend? 
-- You? Welcome. 
   Did you travel? Have you returned? What's new with you? 
-- A neighbor got killed … / 
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

A game/ 
- Your dice are on a streak. 
- Oh, just a coincidence/ 

                      . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .    

          Layers of darkness 
          and talk dragging more talk.