Wind runs a movement on dust
A storm of the camel’s laughter
As it goes up and down horizon.
We are dust of tribe in religion
Revenge wars and body killing,
Grinding bodies to a fine dust.
We are dust of camel laughter,
Staring at the holes in history.
We make a fine dust of holes.
How do I sort this mesh of light
Through another room window
Where a woman is ironing light
In a hole of neighbor apartment?
Does her light belong to my eye
If the room is other for my eyes?
But in light’s clutter of this room
With crooked rays from skylight
I have to get a mess out of holes
Before claiming a woman’s light.
Not every man will remember
A rain on night with dog howl
But the sky is keepsake of light.
Cirrus and cumulus float a sky
While sunset torches one day
And moon lets down its trees.
But not every man remembers
A dog howl at mom’s vacating
As memory turns to a pale sky.
Dog howls at a midnight’s sky.
Rain falls on night for nothing
After men vacate their spaces.
( reading Mark Strand’s poem The End)
The shepherd’s mountain hosted ghosts
Over matchstick’s sounds across bushes.
Today it is back again, dreaming out of.
We may exorcise female ghosts from it.
They are a flesh turned stone with men.
Their sleeping tombs are cold with past.
Bodies were covered in a male darkness
And their stomachs homes to male egos.
Now they are in the same stone as men.
In street old men are aggregates.
Old heads bob up, turn sideways
As they gather their earth’s crust
For thin cover on parched faces.
The recent heads listen to uncles
And aunts under dark staircases,
The latter words invisible by day
But at times exceeding by night.
We read a dust storm’s history,
A burial of its living as liquid
So we can run cars on its dust.
Wind runs its fingers on sand.
A storm of a camel’s laughter
Goes up and down a horizon.
We have heard woman poems,
Their envelope licking poems.
We have smelt woman poems
Pickled and dried in a hot sun
For future sons’ consumption.
We have seen woman poems
In the tired eyes of old men’s
Bodies from woman’s bones,
Woman poems in a brass pot.
They are best poems on water.