Light cut in basalt
I would die of your dome
for vegetables at breakfast —
this side of the conflict zone.
Zebra arches bound into a colonnade —
Kurmanji eyes at nine o’clock,
entoptic kilim splayed.
Where the flinty steppe geometry
runs dry, but unicorn and ayran
stanch the urge of lines
to bloom to boteh:
The lamp hangs determined
and stark above my smugglers’ tea.
Heart too ready to be drowned
in volcanic rock
and Aryan eyes.
and midnight Armenian steeples
are your neck
in Song of Songs.
Martyrs glint out from
moustache on the gallery.
For coffee and a thousand suns,
Street alive with sumac and the veneration of
a little dark girl,
millions gone missing in the Syrian register,
blood runs warm to me in the mountains.