dust is dead skin

Dear Readers,

Sky’s without a pore

tonight, it cannot sweat

and all the slums of Cairo

have lost to dust

as far as the eye can see

I see nothing, only the then

in now, but there

is all but out of sight.

Dust is skin, they say

dead- once

mouth to mouth

breasts, bellies, legs

spooned on brass beds

gathering hands

together wrapped past

houseboats on the Nile,

or did we not, once?

Dust is a whore I loved and she’s every where

the cabarets on Haram Street

pumping heat into men

spinning her long hair like a fan

lapping cash on sweaty chest

and in this dust on my mirror

I run my index finger and all

I see is a sliver of me, clearly

the rest is all old pollen and hair

and stars undone and done exploding.

A megalopolis, a humdrum,

and a Sphinx stunned by god

knows what, heart

drops in dark, raw drawers,

I close, I open,

look for a love lost to emerge.

Light is a lie, I say

flicking the switch

just look at all

those shutters shut and all

the haze like cotton thick

I light the incense, burn

the hash until my mind turns

to ash and skin is elsewhere,

gone.

Stay well,

A Cairene