Port

He returns a few Shahsavars
with the necktie of a noose
a few scratches on the forehead
stapled in the dossier

Shall I dance on a crane above all these fists
or shall I play hide to all these seeks?

I should go to Shahsavar a little to promenade in Paris
grow tall before the Mona Lisa
rub cloud-hips against the Eiffel Tower

The dawn is darker than the prostitute loitering in the bosom of dusk

A student from Albania
Eastern Europe          or Asia
makes no difference
To become a doctor in Uganda         an engineer in Nigeria
or a diamond in the Congo

The mayor puts up roadblocks
The dustman urinates behind the university wall
and smokes on the sly in Ramadan
This forest does not smell of timber
it is oil
scattered on the forehead
and water’s fingers stroke the tankers’ hips

PORT