Friday, March 1, 2019

On Coins and Coffee

I couldn’t tell a story
To save my life, to keep me
From the executioner,

Shahrazad, which makes me wish
You had been real and really
Composed and narrated tales
In your own voice, all night long

To charm murderous power
Eavesdropping on your murmurs
That saved you and your sister.

You would have been so unlike
Any narrator I’ve known.
I write of a world of things,
But you would make sense of dreams.

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