for Asim Abu Shakra

so much is said by the

din of electric lights, warm

against a windowsill, just

enough for callow thorns

to catch, absorb, dwell

in the strangeness of

flickering photosynthesis.

i knew not the last sound

it heard, nor the last crackle

of unfettered sun it held, now

carved in the imprint of

smouldering clay. a

network of roots learns

an earthen solipsism, the

swell of ten thousand

tongues held adrift in

lonelier reverberations. the

cactus whispers of drier

earth, the whiff of swallowed

flesh, the hardened knowing

of patience.