They were gold tipped spires
you remember so clearly
how the muezzin's song almost filled the valley
that night, someone
to almost perfectly fill your body
and you could see
how close it all was
at last.

Now that the money has run out
and time has dulled the ease from your eyes
will you live the life of table scraps
at the steps of your battered house
or feed off the remains of your old desires?

Your path is lined with a pleasure so scattered
it has become gravity.

Abraham Burickson lives in Portland, Oregon where he works in architecture and has a piece forthcoming in Hubbub.

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