Poetry

Finally there’s someone I might
and have and could one day 
want again, or tarry—

Yesterday I shared a cab with a priest
who said it was a fine day to ride cross town 

If you leaned over
the peeling window ledge,
one tower of Notre Dame

In the placid lean of an arid summer, in the lingering
snarl of pit latrines, the sharp barbs of the acacia,
in the opaque eyes of the girl whose fingers frenzy

“We always kicked for the same team. We prayed
next to each other on the sajjada during salat.

“As you can see the camps are overpopulated,
and the small parts in between, if somebody
vanishes, getting to them is like a reunion date