The towering blaze of a bonfire, thick as hair, wind-driven,

flared and shone on the bruised Agame coins. The wind,

the coins, the smoky fume woke the messenger

as he drank wine and juggled twelve coins with ten fingers.  
He slid his drunken feet, head light as water, he shifted

sand into the winged carpets of Khourri mystics.

And as he fingered the engraved chimera struck

by the Agame minter who’d knurled and hammered under 
the lost pillars of Iram, his glass-coloured eyes magnified.

A rumour turned into a secret held between his lips, carried

on his hips, hidden in shoes had crossed worlds of oceans

and deserts.  A message was a livelihood worth bread, 
manna gum or a dagger, even a coat and a belt.

But a dozen Agame coins brought the Gods to his side.

New wealth had lengthened his neck, swanning him

to the point of oblivion, his heart roasted in the sweet tannin 
of brewed grapes, and the rose coloured blood on his tongue

craved more.  He tapped the winged-god on his lapel.

At the grey feet of the Sultan he knelt obediently.  Her name

spilling from his lips when his forehead kissed soil.  
He unsealed the message titled wrath: the wrath of the Lady

is unrivalled by any of the higher-gods; the seers warn

the angels, the gods warn the jinn that caves are turning

into tombs. The Sultan paid in full. A gut full. The messenger 
emptied his pockets while wine and smoke cloistered

his breath.  On his coin-freckled palms, he saw:

a herd of camels, topaz  amulets, the blue dusk fragrance

of Yathroub, marriage to his Bedouin cousin, a stallion 
with the speed of an eagle flying him to the oasis of Bakkah

where merchants from Damasq and Sanhara traded

their frankincense and silk with combs of rare ebony teeth.