Morova, At All

Morova you have seen it all, measured it,
how vast is this weeping world like
tea in the Syrian sun, red clay brick

captive young clerk against your neck
swallowing your golden afternoon, before
last night's bellboy bite has even healed

black mascara scars of your sealed eyes
oval hymnals of the animal in your tar
lungs, his pith a language you cannot

understand, his thrust a deep need,
cobblestone stairwell and the smell of
fresh bread on the wind, the turquoise

sea, Morova you have seen it all, no one
can educate you of how it can be, or
remind you to unravel your petals,

release your warm love, uncage your
white god's infertile demands and unmask
the thief hovering over your head,

so that those spotless linen sheets remain
unblemished of righteous judgement, that
distant sun can be everything, nothing
at all.

TA