I don’t want to write a ghazal.

You wouldn’t either with a brain as messed up as mine.

I have forgotten how I wrote them before

And now I can’t fathom instructions.

I’ll tie Celtic knots with Italian spaghetti.

with no sign of Persian delights

or patterns of beauty and promise.

Love is all a repetition of form and illusion.

We fly or we fall as we scribble old thoughts on our walls.