Children are tumbling across the masjid courtyard,
darting past each other like needle
and thread through ancient stones.
Call to prayer enswathes the evening
and every atom of me stand on end in wanting.
With gold I am sewing it all to my mind,
every guttural syllable of God,
every carefully latticed year lain before me
as the writer sits,
silent. His profile juts austere
against the white marble rising to frame him,
a shah unlikely, eyes closed, consulting
the living, breathing
violet of millennia
before he returns, sarcastic, to this world.
I like him better like this,
before he remembers to be.
I hear the quiet click of the camera
when he thinks I’m not looking,
but fair is fair; I’ve already saved him
like that in my head,
in the incredible electric sigh of now.