the parchment’s overgrown now
& flies no longer buzz down by
the hydro-electric facilities –
the bus route’s open for business
all along it twenty four hour
cafes spring up like pillboxes
some people speak of screams
in the night houses on fire &
some barely speak at all just a
fingerbone or shattered skull
whispers eloquent poems from a
time long past but still living
along winding trails known only
to animals & their shepherds
whil miniature obelisks mark
the cemeteries of the present
tentse & crosses send down rays
of pure conviction from the rock-
strewn hills & miraculous shrines
small wonder then that this boy on
the bus who thinks he has missed
his stop wakes up shrieking –
trying frantically to get out (who
knows what kind of bad dreams
he’s running from – we’ve seen it
all before we reassure him …
we know why his mouth opens
just there where the bones are
only so deep where the mosque
is a finger of warning now black
& every day dawns darker than
the previous night (in visegard
