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emerging from dreams

May 7, 2011

dust at the crossroads

the fortune tellers bow their heads and close their eyes.

the world shakes itself like a wet dog

spraying droplets in every direction


watching a dancer, from the stage,

who pirouettes behind a white scrim

checking over her shoulder from time to time

to see if I’m watching


I was told, as a boy,

that every Persian rug has a flaw

because only Allah is perfect.


the blues and the greens

are not part of these scenes

they must be imported


taking steps

taking (baby) steps

because everything is tiny in the face of the infinite.


I need a haircut


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