Saturday, November 8, 2014


                                                              for A.M., 1946—2014

In the stillness
of his embedded craft
something always left
between the glittering tiles

the shadows of Byzantium
before the terrible differences—

Meddeb is dead, the last
Mediterranean, the last who knew
white desert with kind hands,
the peace of God that only
men disturb, calm
Tiamat coiled behind heaven,

to mourn a decent man
is almost blasphemy,
his life a precept
to be followed not discussed. 

And yet, many grains of sand
in the desert of the mind. 
Grit in my teeth
women waving
white sheets from their balconies.