Hairless poems in the shape of wet yams. Like collars on the throats of girls, forcing them to read. Emptying their stomachs until they hurt with an infinite night. With steel pipes and the noises of a crowd of tobacco. Because I am captive in the pleasures of dust storms, bring me my friends and acquaintances.
Blue salted oceans surrounding lovely Yemen. How many times must I say I don’t know you? For you to roll up and finally dry in my restless mind. Dark as you are I’ve never seen you. Girl shaped like wine, I never wanted you. You refuse not to belong in these snow piles of poetry, ill-fitting and absolutely real.