Howard Firkin
If I could fly there with you,
dodging minarets
and laughing at the merchants, thieves, and lovers

If I could throw my head back
lie exhausted, smile,
my heart a colon and parenthesis

If I could know the taste of
office foraged food
and stolen sauce with your lips, on your carpet

I’d understand your words the
knotted arabesques
the weave the warp the coloured, ragged threads