I. Metamorphosis

please don't mind
the static

I can hear you
even though
there are no bars
here

or lines
of any kind

please come
closer

do you know
how to find me

I am not far

but it is

hard to measure

wait

I will describe it

I am
in the middle

there is no up
or down
no right or left
in this madhya
space, this middle place
of origin

and reunion

where the line
finds
its head
and its
tail
and
undoes
the butchery
of amputation

from
the circle

the place
without any lines
at all

no headlines
no frontlines
no borderlines

here
the line detaches
from the blue sphere
it gorged upon
and
here
no one
falls
off
or
outside
but folds
into
an embrace
of non-estrangement

I invite you
to join
and let your
dead limbs
learn
old new, new old dances
let your
dead eyes stretch
boundless

the line
is
no longer
a drunken arbiter
of death

the line
is
no longer
an orphan
made cruel
by exile

poor line
you taught us well
and now we know
that we don't want
what you have

we want
what
no one has

so, decrepit line
we cradle you
and
fold you back

to the circle

of chimes
and wings
and the beat
of a new old, old new
world

it is Monday in the revolution
and we sit
in its doorway
eager
face
forward

in
the
metamorphosis

II. Cranes

now that you are here
please
know

that sometimes

it is not

pleasant

in fact
be warned
that
sometimes

it is quite painful here

the caterpillar
cannot help
but unfurl
into
monarch wings

nature shows
do not record
the screams
or
bleeding
of unfolding
wings

we grow them
and some
spring fresh
while others
shoot
from backs
scarred
and used
to the effort

we prepare
for flight
with wings

unmeant
for leaving

or
escape

what we want is not
to go

but
to arrive

and to

tremble

with

the world

what we want is
to become

those

whom no one owns

but the line

the sad line

whom we cradled
and folded
back
into
itself

has
come
uncoiled

it is stubborn
it is
non
compliant

it is used to itself
and we
are used
to it

we don't know when
it was born
or cut
from the circle
just
that it fell
and the universe
was squeezed
and
carved
through
its
middle

and the line

once inside
our insides

became not a thing
but an everything
ness

I saw it
the other day
poking its head
from
the circle

stretching its neck
long
and proud

like a crane
leaving
the nest

its beak was shiny and
dangling from it
I saw
a beautiful crystal

like an earring
clutches
a diamond

the beak
clutched
this crystal

like
prey

it raised its lattice neck
of metal
and
machinations
and
there you were
multi-faceted crystal

hanging

dangling

dancing

in the nape of the sky

you were
treading air
furiously

for twenty minutes

for

twenty

minutes

dear crane
you are not meant
to adorn
the
sky
with death

please
find your way
back

from hook
to beak

from metal
to feather

from line
to circle

from death
to life

Al-Lat
Al-‘Uzzá
and Manāt,
exalted goddess cranes
your intercession is hoped for

swoop down and rid us
of those
who commit

corruption on earth

deliver
these
satanic verses
to
those

unpurged
of the line

to those
un-remembering
of
the
feather

it is only Tuesday in the
revolution

yet I see

a chandelier
of crystals

hanging
from
hooks
in
the
sky

III. Blank Paper

it was a
Wednesday
in
late
November

I woke
to the silence
of
paper
falling

it poured down
and swooped up

a billow of whiteness
sailing with
such
ease
that
above me

I could feel
the blue sphere
relax
its
shoulders

somewhere
there are others
who
are falling

off
and
outside
the
line

their breath
speaking
infinity
on
blank
pages

on placards empty
and
full

in Urumqi
they bow to the
past
on a
beautiful pasture

and tremble

before
the
future

perhaps they know

an expanse
cannot
be tamed

a future
cannot
be charted

a mystery
has
no
slogan

with them
I think

we
can
peel back

the metal

with them
I think

we
will
bend new old shapes

into this world

soft

like a feather

IV. Metamorphosis

babajoon
it is now
Thursday
in the revolution

lift me high
so I can see
the
brave
curve
of the circle

and ask of it

will there be
a Friday
in the revolution

will we spring
from
the womb
of
death

laughing

like
Zoroaster

will we
ink
the pages
before us

and be allowed
to live
out
our
own
mistakes

or will this Thursday

stretch out
forever

I know
better
than
to call
upon you
for answers

dear circle
dear wheel
dear universe

maybe
you
are even
more helpless
than
we

No, you say
come be
the orbit

come
flail
in
defiant
flight

bend

become
unbroken

in
the
metamorphosis
we
carry
Al-Lat
Al-‘Uzzá
and Manāt
in
our song

we
hold
the hand
of many
Fridays

we
hold
death's stare
for

twenty

long

minutes

and we maintain
that we don't want
what you have

we want
what
no one has

so

we
resist
the thought
of apocalypse

we
hope
without
need for
redemption

we are the
becoming people

we
whom no one owns

are the
embrace of
non-estrangement.