I am not the centuries-ago Muhammed.
I listen inside this day
like a fresh-fired Phoenix,
not some pigeon looking for seed.
There is a king for whom other kings
are stable boys. Some sip Hallaj's wine.
I drink his truth by the jar, by the barrel.
Qibla for the soul, kaaba for the heart.
I am the constant sky,
not a Friday mosque's ceiling dome.
Clean mirror, no rust.
I am the burning core of Mount Sinai,
not a mind full of hatred.
I taste a wine not pressed from grapes.
The one everyone calls to
when they are in sudden mortal danger,
I am That.
Gabriel could sit here beside me,
if he became God.