I heard his knock in my sleep and woke
to let him in.
imagine then, my heart in my feet
as I stepped out of bed and over a snake
that darts away so fast I doubt my eyes,
if it really grazed my ankleor if my sight convinced me
of some artificial touch —
all the dramatics of a retina
eager to spin brightness from a long night.
trust that I am trying not to conflate
snakes with the first garden.
trying not to fixate on capacity,
on travelers becoming conquerors
or patterns becoming means
for celestial navigation,
trying to focus on the guest, patient,
waiting behind the door.
the Bedouins dubbed him
Tariq — a morning star.
a man mapping the sand
of a dream.
there is a room — I touched its walls.
a man — his knock rustles behind my eyes.
there is a diaphanous dream leaking
through the gap under my door.
I blame the trees for their wood
and wonder if he’s tired from walking.
the grass. the sky. if his eyes darken
with the night. I press hard against mine.
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