the voice of the qawwali singer
lifts off your wig of poor listening
habits you meet with a stack
of ice cubes in an exploding
fridge spin across skies like
a valley rediscovering its dervish
wings the ceiling becomes
an empyrean of parachutes quivering
like the fountain of his chubby
throat he sings from the slender
disc above the bread board
like an accidental messiah and
the musak of the century takes to
its sickbed; arcane perfumes waft
over from the plastered walls your eyeballs
roll across the windowpanes like
surprise pearls you set fire to a
thousand travellers' cheques he
sings of the secrets in the ancient
library of your sleepy heart