Runcible Spoon

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As If

 

The inglorious inexactitudes

of the incomprehensibly inexpressible,

as foreseen by the blind fortune teller

that summer night so long ago

it’s as if it never existed.

 

When the lovely Andrea lifted the seventh

of her seven veils and all was revealed.

The same night Akbar flew his carpet

over the domes and turrets of a desert city

whose name somehow escapes me, my memory

a sunset the likes of which I can only imagine.