Several circles littered on the page,
the flickering of Sun between the leaves
in eclipse. I heard the crescent Moon
is multiplied by many pin-hole cameras
giving dazzling effect. Within the dim
I witness yet another occultation;
now―transformed―I laugh about the books
and how they're wrought. The iron in the Quarter
folds and curves like flowering embroidery;
a vision I had had, a prophecy
that the car wouldn't start. I'd rather say
the music is me, I have now no choice
but to sing; I heard a Sufi said,
"Is anybody here but my beloved?"
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