Speechless as usual, I scratched on the edge of the Times. Then slumped back into the down pillows, waiting for you to minister again, over the meridians left of my plague. Dark, even feminine hands. Gentle as pharaonic Isis, that friend of slaves and sinners, who also filtered light and heat through moist palms into all the desert mouths of killing darkness.
High in this beachside loft where the wind is softer, those mouths wail from the tops of blue tiled minarets, so close we can almost not ignore them.
You say they want not to be heard, and not to be vindicated, but more strangely, to be held.