I entered the city gates in a blind-fold
led by nothing but the summer drift
of fairy-roses
the secret musk of books
How the market puffed up
with flags and shrouds
For a few drachmas
I bought a shroud for my sword
and buried it
under the Bitter-Almond tree
Next I bought a pail of azaleas
a lamp and a saffron mantilla
wrapped in which all night
I watched ink
silently make sparrows
out of its dormant language
Morning broke on the page
I was reading
And I let words fall
into tightly woven nests
And I let illumination
be the song