what is the light we wake to this October first?
are we awake?
did something change?
the machines are massing in the poorest of places
and terror's the word indeed
get on with your money it says
the blood that feeds it an oily black
don't wash a wound with blood it says
on the side of a bus shelter signed Rumi
late at night in the fog
on these dead streets
why so lonely all this life?
doesn't any one but the poorest of poor
appear to you? he asked
of course they do but these
have always been my North Star
an eye above
the lost streets
and deserts of war
and here he comes
the shining of his metal
crutches his pale
to him belongs the night
all cold long
cold cold our might
where is the sufic petal and its
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