But the world is obvious
I gather you in one notebook
This erotic practice of tears binds us
I pray for the city
I pray for the motels...
To access my theoretical strength
And speak of my skin color
And my fatigue
The fragility of sleep
Here they allow touch
When gathered in small boats
I watched a bridge falling down falling down
It is pretty
Our thoughts of survival


Words don't do much
Yes, there are different ways to train them
But we are running out of time
And we have an exasperated sense of uncertainty
Life though is still perfect for weeping...
I don't have you
I have my nervous system
I have my birthday
I have


Just a failing body
With its inability to fathom its myth
Or to watch the world
And its unfaithful grammar
Sooner or later we will all have name tags...
And despite their temporariness
We will be delighted
Investigating our partners' sexual past
The tongue being a symbol of crisis
And our preferences to stay marginal will be feasible
Even if the utopian texts promised us salt
We will still enter beneath the arc—
And get caught pretending about life

Maged Zaher

Maged Zaher lives and works in Seattle. He published five books of poetry and one of translation. In 2013 he won the Weekly Stranger's Genius award in literature.


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