No. 407
The green sky, a sudden moon
*******brought back bad harvests.
Through the heat, fortune wheezed
*******“settle” and rolled over.
But to die in grace, beaming.
*******Never trust anything in orbit.
Down by the river, the seven sisters
*******implore the sky not to sell its share.
I walk away while the pious burn
*******the fruits of faith.
No. 66
Found myself downwind
*******from her house
talking to the birds
*******and thinking twice about my choice of robe.
A green ringlet chained behind the ears
*******of the good thief.
Word got out about the ruby lips,
*******that beauty goes
only so far towards possession.
*******That’s why the academy only buys handmade
and kings struggle with ascension
*******why salvation must be permeable
and you stay as you are.
No. 393
I lost my name
*******but kept my sight.
Happy faith, deaf to blame,
*******that lets the heathen suffer
Nobody knows about my cut-glass savour
*******who looks for Narcissus in the park.
No. 37
The wind is stronger
*******than the colours of any flag
around which you rally.
*******Gabriel sank to the seventh circle
where the doomsday trumpet couldn’t reach.
*******Told us to keep the gifthorse sweet,
and get back to work
*******for now the door to power is closed
and the rose unjust.
No. 2
The smell of blood
*******black curls through broken ice.
If the ascetic calls, I’m washing
*******the wine from my rug.
How could they know
*******my fear of the wave,
that summons secrets to the assembly
*******and pools at his feet.
No. 107
Surfeit of grace
*******bellcup thoughts
and a lasting dream
*******of cypruses that know their place,
offset your way of bringing in the dawn.
*******A curse on the untrained eye,
the base lip broken
*******into your circuit soul.
No. 319
The final verdict was victory
*******through opposition, calm
through chaos, like your shadow
*******cast cool and whole
on the house we built.
*******My pennance caught on wet lips
taking God at his word,
*******a just tyrant with a couple of restaurants.
No. 200
Don’t let them find you
*******with the harp and oud
lest they seize love’s emollient dreams
*******and settle its questions.
A state formed through force,
*******another through fate;
neither ready, when
*******a poet, a sheikh, and an accountant walk into a bar.
No. 39
Will she keep her promise
*******when she comes to
Shiraz and the banks of the Rokni
*******where we keep modest means.
Write the king with your saffron pen
*******that his daily bread is safe
from the creed that blesses blood
*******above mother’s milk.