Tanned days rest futile and barren, effortless.
Wan old woman on a mahogany chair. Balding.
Folded torn date palms amidst desserts thirsting.

Blue-black nights spent watching lovers, kissers
eat lips, tongues. At soft tips of sanded hill castles.
I dream of full, silky fleeting rivers. Oh Krishna.

You are the giver, taker, war, peace and refugee.
Plane songs, sorrows and all the remaining dreams.
I’m empty, yet a ripened bunch, ready to submit.

Like a dog at your altar. Running knives on my back.
I cannot grow, the blue is too far a lover. Or wither, the
ground too close a migrant. Just a blessing cut down for

those curses fettered in pages, drawn beneath gypsy tongues.
Crop me off this pilgrimage, myself running out of pilgrim
Age.