There is a bird that flies inside a lover’s heart
carrying bones to the great Qaf Mountain bird. I see flocks going there and caravans of headless camels. Lovers will not ride on anything that has its head attached. And there is never a trace of jealousy near.
When lover-bones come to the kitchen, a hundred elegant soups begin bubbling
particle music for the death-night wedding.
As a lover’s body is lowered into the ground, a thousand skylights open. As a saffron stalk dries up, hedges of roses bloom.
Two or three more subtle points like these
may come before my dying mouth closes.
Adam A. Azim 