After the sixth poem in Mohiedden Ibn Arabi’s
The Interpreter of Desires
and how shall we go on breathing
when we’re done smoking them
out in poems they can be still
swarming gasping in the sweet
atmosphere of trees
we have forgotten
how to name
or say anything but lamely sound
alarms on faster borrowed breath
as though nature were out
there like a lover
you’d learn to live without
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