Said her husband once

of her eyes fed to the cats

why weep at the sight
of small, outstretched hands, my love

morning we’ll go South
                    *
Fleeing, too late, bodies

crash, necks snapped on the clean sill

brief fleshy light—
Victor Jarra’s hands

ripped, ligaments flung like song.
                    *
River, rows of blackberries

decorate lips, beard, cheekbones.

August snaps done, lost.
Who leaves now becomes

homeless, hawks fly; crows descend.
                    *
What hides tiny snakes

in the holes of its dark walls:

the Damascene house—
Bassamat’s face spells

home, her tongue’s tip on fire.
                    *
On a woman’s face

a rust blemish lit up by

a surveillance flare—
Shut-up now, Marie.

They are closing in quickly. 
                    *
Child by the Sahel

lighting through acacias

just lucid dreaming.
He wakes up angry,

devours a memory— 
                    *
Night: old lady scrapes

the light in the mustard field,

just to scare the trees 
Outside the big house,

a father scalps his lawn down—
                    *
Hummingbird returns,

hears Milosz read “A Song on

the End of the World”—
She hangs clothes outside,

smells fire in the air, sighs—
                    *
Rain, gooseberries, heart-

beat—she conjures Dickinson

knocks her heart down, sighs:
this love hurts badly

Return before it’s too late.