Treeing

A Ghazal

In the empire’s night, I linger toward you, Haram-e-dil, streetlight, witness—signaling.

I guard the haram-e-dil through every night for you — treeing
Protecting the last small country where you reside — treeing

Leaves over your eyes, cooling the fevered light,
afraid the blast will enter and wake your sleep — treeing

Iron and flesh in the air; the neighbor’s house is burning.
Inside the cobalt mine, I keep signaling — treeing

Crossing checkpoints to bring you a pillow,
hoping your head finds one soft hour while I am treeing

You never know where you will touch the empire—
branching, witnessing, breathing, treeing.