I miss that being who writes ghazals and trains them together with string
doesn't look at us mere mortals, hides in a cape trailing strings --
A light-footed nightingale, drawing caged viridian magpies from Beijing
finds her subjects transformed to paper, disappeared, the living strangled in string --
He plays this table of punctured lungs as a glass bead game, tallying healthy failures as a king
at mancala. Stones clink, hot air props up your delicate chin. That death-glance pulls heartstrings.
Sing, low porch door, fight the ragweed until your loneliness sings
out a sunset in Armstrong brass, the gypsy bow on violin strings.
I propagate arrow wounds in the unsuspecting public. The lack of poison stings
as the lack of human gravity, but I make them swing together, I tie them close with string.
