we swing in the red dust of long broken miles
our eyelashes tingling in the static
and just below the rattle and hum
blue ocean waves lap the shoreline
as we pass through this colored day
there are houses on the hill
where calico cats gently step and slide
where the zest of lemons sweeten the air
they make of me a memory-worn vessel
drowsily sipping life
here in a state-less nation
wound up like a fire branding scorn
i must step now from my chariot
and knock upon these doors
to find the hidden secrets
for they are always, sometimes trapped
alone in their high and dusty attics
in their mother’s heirloom safe
or perhaps they are just resting
buried in the shallows
merely inches beneath the floor
-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 4/3/13
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