Kismet

Be quiet and listen. Honey’s being made.

So I sat down with a good book, oldest story

there is: cities burning. Masts of salt sail the Sinai

away. It’s fate. I thought I had a witness but

I’m all there is. We stopped by the Sahara Club,

cocktail before Genesis. When I fall down

drunk, when I seize, stop me from swallowing . . .

Promise me we’ll meet here, say Valentine’s

of each year. Each year we’ll drag in, an unplucked

splinter in your eye. A jet will buzz over. I might

hold you but Baghdad’s so hot that time of year.

I would rename the chasm. I would rename the thrush,

but kismet tucks its fingers in my mouth. One dead root

caused this. One sweet too many kills. Tear it out.

I’ll suck gas, won’t feel a thing. Sleep, sleep, there, there.

You’ll tell me to groove out to the soft rock, creation-

lite, easy-listening, barely breathing. Across the abandon

brush catches fire. Witness. It’s your voice I hear.