Silent Ghazal


All we have taken, all the sound, onomatopoeia in words
comes to this, forsaken, I cannot find your lost words.

In the shell-ground fine sand, two fisher-women,
by their salt kilns, stand awash in sea-whispered words.

A rose medallion lies beneath the passivity of the dunes,
en mirage your thighs, sun-swept over white-parted words.

I cannot wait until the wind makes spaces in your heart for me,
nothing but ash descends from the long stem of yearning words.

While your soft skin gaily skirts the chambers of my voice,
thoughts that begin at your feet rise in dark, thick red words.





© 1999 red slider. All rights reserved.

Back to Lobby