He never flies except toward spilling blood.

North of a bottle cap lay Samarqand
With pocketknives we divvied up the spoils.

 

The camshafts of heaven will outlive the axle trees.

Low-hanging clouds, pond-mesmerized,
Whittle slim-stemmed flagons from their subtle waves!

The luscious reddening gold of the emir’s coin
Buys my encomia. I haggle in magnificence,
Or then I elbow-dust his aureole.