Since you have left, death draws us in.
A fish quivers on rough sand until its soul leaves.
For those of us still living, the grave
feels like an escape-hole back to the ocean.
This is no small thing, the pulling of a part
back into the whole. Muhammad used to weep
for his native land. To children who do not know
where they are from, Istanbul and Yemen
are similar. They want their nurses.
When I close my mouth, this poetry stops,
but a frog deep in the presence
cannot keep his mouth closed.
He breathes and the sound comes.
A mystic cannot hide his breathing light-burst.
I reach this point, and the pen breaks,
as Sinai once split open
for the generosity it was given.