An enigma:
though I craft verse,
my only response
to your Sufi ponderings:

a failing tongue and empty fingers.

The swallows and sparrows
dance on the cool morning breeze.

They rise and fall;
         float and stall;
         soaring, diving, fluttering
and all the while chattering—
         not about days been,
         nor days to come—
         but the present moment;
         their current joy.

They trust the sun to rise at dawn,
the moon to appear in the even cooler twilight air.

The swallows and sparrows
      (dancing as they do on the cool morning breeze)
worry not about tomorrow—
for today will have troubles of its own.

Within the dragons' den—
    the smoke they breathe; twists, turns, spirals
    hea'enward in clouds of tar and ash
    (their mouths gaping and nostrils flared).

Indeed they don't breathe fire—
    They inhale it, swallowing whole
    The ancient gift of Prometheus
    (the first giver of stolen goods).

A wise woman once said:
    'This is the closest one can be
    with said sacred element. Yet
    such intimacy comes with price
    (as with all sim'lar relations).

I see their wrinkled skin
    And hear their deep raspy roar that
    rarely, though spontaneously
    interrupts their philosophy
    (or words of the drunk lay-dragon).

My Beloved speaks profundities
      and pays dues not His own—
while I, the sober fool,
      stumble falsely drunk.

Though His wine warms my heart
      and sweetly stains my lips,
it is not potent in my veins—
      I am not subject to it's dance.

I drink too little, too less
      for the drunkard I claim to be.

Your living water
ferments my soul.

Out spills wine—
a sweet elixir

for thirsty souls,
for hungry hearts.

(Your drinking songs
soothe parched throats)

For our hangovers:
Your living water

I love old books—
         their smell,
                  soft and softly mottled pages,
                  font-faces,
          and carefully illustrated frontispieces.

My bookshelves are lined:
         old copies of ancient classics.

I love buying old books—
         the lost treasures they are,
and the lost treasures they hide:
                      tram tickets,
                      letters,
                      not­es,
    two-dollar-notes,
              and scholarly students' scribblings.

I have some books I fear to open
         for fear they'll fall apart.

There are some who love old books—
         their possibilities,
                 malleabilities,
         and superficialities.

Their bookshelves aren't lined.
         But rooms of reams of bunting, and tables of origami.
                          (or soft and softly mottled picture frames)

They love buying old books—
         not for wisdom,
         nor connections to ancestors.

They've no fear of giants' shoulders;
         whole worlds are torn apart.

Between her and our
Almighty Beloved,
this mustard seed faith
grows as the willow.

Intoxicated by you
even my curses
sounded as Hafez.
Rumi was my Disciple.