Alam Al Mithal
He trusts that painterly gesture plights more deeply
than boredom or gastroinestinal distress. Woodsmoke
curls in his nostrils, a hint of industry; factory remnants
cling to the gap-toothed line of hills whose foundations
he played among as a boy.
Conjoining useless notions, seeming true but
actually a depth of jagged knowing that
makes one steadily stronger but sleepless;
the Azhar book collects fragments of piety
he never prayed but admires and resonates with-
a blue note wings between street lamps
and turns south in the deep pain glowering
at the riven world.