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Left a hole on fire agony or was it the sun

on the banks and near duets?

Eagles with the white wine of the sun

clink and spill, tall

grass over head and heels

. . . Space of hell: shy, inscribed already

but alone—I think I can be that


again, a new hole in the ongoing flute.

In a leap, the country glows—to hone

the fate that wonder exacts,

to go netted through that much,

so heavy as paperweights angels land

square on chaparral nerves.

And since names must give in spades,

out of sorts like these, your reactions

may swell great fountain lips—

a promise that a wish will purge

or pennies caravan the safe

return hearts cross.

from Great Guns Find more by Farnoosh Fathi at the library

Copyright © 2013 Farnoosh Fathi
Used with the permission of Canarium Books.

Published in Farnoosh Fathi Poems

This program is supported in part by a grant from the Idaho Humanities Council, a State-based program of the National Endowment for the Humanities.

Any views, findings, conclusions, or recommendations expressed in this (publication, website, exhibit, etc.) do not necessarily represent those of the Idaho Humanities Council or the National Endowment for the Humanities.