It is hard to not hate
myself, the self who’d rather

turn inward as dusk spirals
into its Tang dissolve. And isn’t ruin, too,

a thing to celebrate? I have ruined many
bad days by feeding them

to small fires. This season
the sparrows and grackles shed

their skins. I rake them into piles
for my daughter to detonate

over and over. Love that wears
plus exhaustion is why

a name is the most common thing
to write with a stick in a heap of ash.

What Heavens

Translated from the Persian by Siavash Saadlou

Fire ecology

First you have a fist,
the same size as the heart, which
came before.

Poplar Trees

watch branches swing in a sudden gust and watch the
leaves rip free, hang on air itself: an estranged fruit.