In Isfahan from its earliest foundation,
“It couldn’t be done,” she said.
And then, with the greatest good in my intention,
Said I, cocking my rifle, “It is going to spring!”
Cement buildings opposite each other glower,
their alleys tight and dusty,
painted with gold.
Fires billow gods of smoke heavenward.
Said she, cough in throat, “ah, to grow
old together, and look at the stars and make
poetry…”
before that soft, damp sound.
The domes glisten,
the bazaar silent,
save for the twinkling sounds
of falling tile and glass
and the cool northern winds.
(This is about half junkmail, half me. For some reason all I could see in the mass of words was war and love.)