Out curls

Serpentine smoke

Into a Byzantine midnight


I can’t read these heiroglyphs

I carved for myself on the walls

Of my memory

My fingers pass along the grooves in the stone

But unread and unknown,

I keep a secret from myself


My memory holds a door with no handle,

A box with no locks,

A moldy book with wilting pages

And an hourglass with one grain of sand inside

For telling the present moment


Since my memory can’t photograph

It paints with watercolor

On a canvas of sand. I can make out

Serpentine smoke curling into a Byzantine lung


I can’t read these Arabic numerals.

These envelopes have dried my sandy tongue.

I can’t focus

At this oxygen bar, too many Cheshire cats smiling

At this hookah lounge

At the bottom of the dark, green wine bottle

Of my memory


My memory curls out

Like serpentine smoke

Into a Byzantine midnight

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s