Dream: The City: Baghdad, 2008
Who am I that I sit here at this door?
In my dream, there is a long alley, a place I learn Want.
The city is a mirror. Inside my reflection, old men are on fire—
Flaming like red kaffiyahs.
Litter ignites into funeral flares; the bread of the dead is baking.
Above the moans of children, soldiers warm their hands.
Avenue widen into downpour, detours unfold, flower into cemeteries.
Into this narrow place, two rivers clash.
Am I the one covered with brine, smelling of tides?
Or am I the stone, lifted like a flag?