Scheherazade's Fever Dream

            with a drip-drop honey voice

                       off clear bells:

            a baby born in green morning dew

                       warm milk-coffee hair, cows

            grazing on the marigold fields

                       autumn leaves pass

            with a crinkling golden death

                       on their descent

 

            red hue, lantern’s thrashing

                       with acidic linen sheets

            a boy hides among

                       the pound pound pound

            listen

                       I find myself in the middle

            face sweat glistening

                       nothing to do now

            but watch and hear and tell

 

            until the blood moon sinks down

                       below the slow distilling waters

            against my fogged mirror

                       and flitting eyes of Persian blue

                       

 

Reviews

[Sami Khalil]

A very interesting poem. Pen on...:).............................

[Frieda P]

Your title got my attention, and your poem did not disappoint. Morning comes too quickly...