“They though only of love,
of music and poetry.”
Washington Irving, The Alhambra Tales
Poetry ought to be
like a Persian khāné
or like a Moorish dar
with an atrium, a court,
a patio, open to the sky,
having silence for its silk
that speaks from a fountain
whose enlivening stream
is meant to kiss from below
the one that bends above.
Like a gaze well-latticed
and lashed—to dispense
its coup de grace, having
her figure, breath, and sound.
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