For in the heavens,
the binding of my travel journal.
I sowed with the sun,
in the limbless alleys,
in the doorways empty of women,
I was scorched by the sun.
It’s hard to picture this breakage.
The picture of this breakage, my dear
dear one.
It’ll disturb the mental balance of a mirror.
Invite me to my childhood garden!
For I have fallen from the heights
of prayers.
—When the morning was the distance between hands and eyelids—
The desert was filling up with dawn,
with conditional talks,
with moment-by-moment pauses,
with my hands
that plucked the suspicious designs,
the hedges and conspiracies,
from the face of the morning.
Now, all the blues of the sky
are flowing in my damp handkerchief.
And from the luckless roads,
the sparrows have brought the twilight
down to my home.
The idle sparrows,
the sparrows of the days off . . .
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