Saturday, November 27, 2010


Ar’rabs grab sandstorms,
placing their open mouths on the hole,
A bousay- soft to your first born,
roll it over al-naar, string sand to glass.

Chords strung out
like praise to yarub.
Sand beats like a drum on dune-swallowed tents.
Tightly-tuned ouadan
burning notes in the night.
Poets string words as blowers stitch sand to glass.

This is Quraysh.
Tribe of Mohammad.
Children of sand.