She asked me if I realized it was this century’s last eclipse and as she touched my eyes with the silence of her lips I felt her pain become mine. She asked me if I thought it was a meaningful ending to a meaningless age if the darkness had somehow revealed the secrets of our rage and as she caressed my chest with saffron and sage I felt her fear become mine. She asked me if I believed it was the long-awaited sign

from the diner of clichés you summon a word a lens an eye a sword — freedom it arrives on a orange scooter in an metallic box insulated and cold — freedom it finds you indefinitely guilty perpetually in debt the very debt you paid back sevenfold in silhouetted blood in stencilled gold — freedom a traitorous hero a principled coward a genuine fraud created in the image of fear from the clay of phobia

In the way this was planned you were meant to learn through contrast: ​ ​ ​​​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​ ​​​ ​ ​​​ ​the throne you once nestled in ​ ​ ​​​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​ ​​​ ​ ​​​ ​as you sipped your tea, ​ ​ ​​​ ​ ​​​ ​​…

A few steps away lies the eastern garden ​ ​ ​​​ ​ ​​​ ​a sense of purpose ​ ​ ​​​ ​ ​​​ ​ ​​​ ​ ​​​ ​ ​​the word in flesh. But you know your God too well ​ ​ ​​​ ​ ​​​ ​ ​​​​ ​ ​​to climb over the…

Or was it the sky? The veiled mysterious ways revealed ​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​ ​​​ ​ ​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​…

The sky is the realm of one We are the realm of three One — faith and ritual, rock and sea Two — desire and sacrifice poetry and tea Three — Words gliding against branches chasing rolls of pleated chiffon. Three. Moon-kissed cheeks breathing the scent of morning. Three. When would you like to make love to me? In winter I am sprinkled over blue spruce. In spring I am the scent of a snowdrop tree. I am your myth

Soiled I am, but faithful, dissipated I am, but whole. Tune these strings to the keys of your secrets. Adorn these sins with the feathers of the fall, O All of All. Crowded I am, but lonely, crowned I am, but small. Lead this age from hunger to wonder. Free this cage with the pulse of your soul.

Damascene Fridays still come back to me. How they would begin – the scent of bread, men waiting in white robes, children discovering the sun, the long rides to families and mosques, navigating through sermons and chilled watermelons. The afternoon pull – to couches and beds, my father reciting the…

Perhaps it’s when you noticed the rays of light invading the nurse’s dress – standing near the window, folding away the sheets of the now abandoned iron bed. Or perhaps it’s an hour earlier, when Christ removed the water clock from your head. Or an hour later, when you rediscovered …