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