This is what I see:

a grain of wheat in the hand of a small boy

barefoot on the unnamed roads,
sleeping in the dream another is having.

An ‘oud, a violin, a guitar,
a mirror of dew,

a man about to undress,
a woman staring.

A traveler
returning
everywhere

and forgetfulness
stealing from itself.

Maktoûb, the Moor says,
we hold clouds in our mouth
and imagine God in our breath.