Last night, the wind was whispering again
in the corridor,
and the lithe flame of my lamp
was dancing like a dervish,
distracting the shadows...

There are so many lies,
at night they meet at the lattice
and tell lies to each other.

At dawn, the window takes
its arbitrary bite of sky,
and briefly frames the cursive script
of soaring gulls:
scattered fragments of a priceless codex.

Insha'llah, today I shall preserve my sanity
by transcribing the Surat al-Tariq.

2.

The gray day hangs from its gibbet
on Seraglio Point,
as rigid as a spitted roast
in the palace kitchen.

I run my thumb along a memory,
but draw no blood:
the blade is blunt.

These curly words alone
possess a life.
They crawl across the page like weevils,
feast upon its flesh.