Poetry hides
somewhere
behind the night of words
behind the clouds of hearing,
across the dark of sight,
and beyond the dusk of music
that's hidden and revealed.
But where is it concealed?
And how could I
possibly know
when I am barely able,
by the light of day,
to find my pencil?

And so I come to the place itself,
but the place is not
its dust and stones and open space.
For where are the red-tailed birds
and the almonds' green?
Where are the bleating lambs
and pomegranates of evening --
the smell of bread
and the grouse?
Where are the windows,
and where is the ease of Amira's braid?
Where are the quails
and white-footed fettered horses whinnying,
their right leg alone set free?
Where are the wedding
parties of swallows --
the rites and feasts of the olives?
The joy of the branching spikes of wheat?
And where is the crocus's eyelash?
Where are the fields we played
our games of hide-and-seek in?
And where is Qasim?
Where are the hyssop and thyme?
Where is the kite descending on chicks
from the heaven's heights,
as the old woman shouts at it:
"You took our speckled hen,
you whore!
I hope you can't digest it!
You there, in the distance:
I hope you can't digest it!"