You lie white in your sorrow
Upon a dark reflective surface,
Mirroring anguish to your marrow.
Fared your well and kissed her thus,
Twinned in grief, cheek to cheek,
Echoing your solemn posture here
So like a Pompeiani cast shriek.
Caught that I may see, but never hear.
I wade through oil wept from a statue veined
By days, ticked off by a constant metronome drone
Of the grain, the grain, the grain of sands that strip the stain
From a crying virgin seducing the sun with her moan.
I weep Ozymandias tears, which grind worlds and hopes
Down to dry and desiccated dreams of forgotten floes
Of the grain, the grain, the grain of sands where Sirius lopes,
And Rahab rasps her tongue toward the Nile’s wet woes.
I wince the Exodus of life’s love for child’s sweet, “abbas”
And shade from copper pots that creak on linen strings
Hanging from ancient doorframes of plundered mastabas,
Beside swaying palms and the tinkling songs of silver ankle rings.
I wear the scorn of a people forlorn by the sight of Time
And the moons in his eyes, which pull the oceans’ tide
Over the grain, the grain, the grain of sands’ rhythmic rhyme,
Cleansing our romance, forsaken to dance where only dreams reside.
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