صباح

Meet me beneath the brocaded awning

where light cuts the iron table.

Where I’m leaning in a bamboo chair

pondering an arch’s age          how green

shoots jut from stone. The police in black

uniforms prance the cobbled center dangling rifles.

A city slow on Sunday          wanted to see it open.

Left you in the room sleeping on pale

sheets          pillows          pears on the nightstand.

Wanted to sit.

Wanted to let you wake without me to feel stillness.

Wanted you to open curtains needing

to find me          needing to walk          needing

the quiver of maybe. But you

know nearing the arch          nearing

the awning as police stare ready

to cock cold guns          arms unspool.