Three Poems
ثلاث قصائد
In the tidy marina,the tide is going out.
My last image of her
tugs at its mooring.
I pause on a slope
of the Alpujarras.
The wide sky can't
encompass my loss.
A hooded crow calls
two hours before fajr.
The engraver has come,
desperate for epitaphs.
First published in NOON: journal of the short poem.
