Knives in bushes, man-made thorns so striking
they draw rose blood, arterial angels
on the sidewalk, faces heavy with frost
falling to splashes of life in the spring.
So the fate of Persian writers: cutthroat
competition for the national ear
breeding fuller Shirazi
boom booms!, hearts
exploding in old neighborhoods, bearded
Muslims, Iranian Darwins seeing
an end to certain characters who fail
to follow the revolution, discordant
cadence rejected, reduced to flat line.
Heading home with poems from my uncle
Tucked in my coat, I slipped on ice and fell.
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