Today I learned that I can’t make mountains move, not even when I ask nicely.
I can’t command the sun to shine, because I want a tan, or compel stars to collapse because I want another thousand years.
I cannot turn to water and ask my friends to bottle me up and put me in the back of the fridge, hoping that you might turn up thirsty on a hot summer day.
It just doesn’t work that way. If I could I would’ve.
I dreamt that I was old
I’ve outgrown my youth. There are new lines underneath my eyes, maps of an ordinary life worth living. Now the moon wanes into a slice of silver. Now I’m throwing rocks into the pond, wrinkling water stretching far and wide. I dream that I am old, sliced and wrinkled with age, and I am happy.
Sometimes I stray and drink of you
Sometimes I stray and think of you
I’m in the garden, offering you plums and roses
Sometimes I stray and drink of you
I’m in the pub, offering you rums and proses
Tetris (II)
And still I send you roses from Damascus and chocolates from Paris
Like a sparrow in love with a hurricane
Like an addict playing Tetris with cracked dreams
Telephone Booth
I heard they built a telephone booth
at the local train station, with the wires cut
I might turn up, calling your name
twenty again, and drinking with ghosts
Poltergeist Days
When I was carried by a high wind blowing along distant shores
When I’ve kept wild dogs on a leash, begging for a second chance
When I’ve faltered at ungodly hours, knocking at your door —
Men on the Moon
but what if I died, Mr. Sandman?
would I still dream?
would the moon still love me
and spend the night?
Flowers and Starry Signs
someday we must sever
like the stars and the moon
though I dream of forever
starless nights come too soon
I will whisper our names
during those dark hours
tracing the branches of my veins
until my life lines
draw starry signs
and wild flowers
Eyes for Pennies
whenever I struggle to find the right words
I remind myself that poets would starve
if love was grammatical
A Love Letter to the Arabic Script
there is something ancient
about your noble nose
your curved lips—
Allah writes poetry
with the arch of your back
A Blog to Regret 