THE BALCONY

As if crawling naked
out of the bottom of a clay bowl

sunken in the dry heat of the Samarian wadi
I’ve been forced out of your bedroom
the last seven nights
in search for movement of air.

The ink-black clouds move over
making room for an invalid moon
whose crooked eye is too lazy tonight
to compete with the lightening flares
of a war-ridden village.

Indignant
the moon watches over earth’s skin
passing behind trees
above stone house roofs
through twisted alleyways
stretching into every dark fracture
to find me—
cheek pressed against granite

drenched with insomnia
and half-waked dreams of empty space
where light slows and time draws to a standstill,

my breath suspended
in the unimaginable eternity
of e and mc squared.

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