Tracks laid down with dawn,
Pace at one with the bride, the runs
Train as long as the aisles of the garden
(One, two, opal grip is milked;
Foot sells galavanter's silk)--
Only every other pause is a swing out black,
Black like rubber curls of the awaited telephone.
When it rains again, you don't answer.
In your modesty, there is a castle--the apex of which
Is the door to your youth. And though
It rains like a beggar at that door,
You've sealed the letter with your foot
For the door it has a slot--and still, your eyes
Bloom each penny trip into the sun
You smooth out. You move in slow ripples, a wave that
Left the sea and from the shore took
A heavy shell as echo and memento.
In circles you go, as if writing a poem
About the sun, or considering what you could
Become. "It was no one," you insist, then curl
To sleep like a fist. Then your eyes
Become microscopes for stars which seem each
A pin in understanding--gold, in a grenade--
- Farnoosh Fathi
