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Poetry

Healer

March 27, 2005
iranian.com

Breathing through my fingers.
Seeing with my kneecaps.
I need to shape up.
I want to go back.

Inundated with your story,
That I can't even understand.
I know but,
Something has left its center.

The spontaneity of her heart beat,
Doesn't match his strides.
The blueness of the sky,
Is not reflected in her wandering eyes.

My arms are hanging loose
Like two bleating carcasses.
My gaze is still lofty.
Spotting a hopping sparrow.

I sit for a while.
Hating the seat underneath me.
My thoughts evaporate,
In the scent of the breeze.  

I wave at you,
From my invisible corner.
With history at the tip of my tongue.
Future annulled in my doctrine.

I still expect a smile back.
I want to become mad at myself.
I put a memory outside your door.
To squeeze you back in time.

I want us to count the days.
Using our hands.
And think about nothing else.
Except the shape of our changing fingers.

I admire your ambitions.
All your becoming.
I pretend I am jealous.
I want us to be free in being.

* *

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