Behind the mountain every sunset
carries with it the atoms of wakefulness.
Cosmic vibrations and a slight fresh tingling
of thoughts. The brain sweats from processing
the missed memories. Cuts of suffering
intensify the pale recollections of the honey-gatherers.
Transporting the slides of a missed life.
With a forgotten tear beneath the eyelids
and hands close to the heart we guard
life beneath our palms. Nested there

is the whole warmth of the dream. Long is
the line written by torment,
heavy the bundle of failed hopes
a man wears, hung upon his neck.
p.s. I still haven’t seen a dervish
spin on the street for money.