Unexpected Visitors
1 Minute Read Time

after “The Guest House” by Rumi
The moon is nothing
but a circular ghost
backlit, just disappearing
beyond the roofs, beneath which
an arm brushes an arm, skin
sheds its light so thinly we forget
we can see
And in our room, sleep
on the brink of extinction, sheep
out to pasture; their small black eyes
blink night away
How we fit neatly into our bed,
studious slumber
Then the lamplighter lights the one lamp
on the fifth planet, smallest
of them all, and meaning is electric; we prepare ourselves
to snuff out the stars,
the flowers:
This being human
is a guest house
I welcome you, morning
air, one-two-three
The sun, a fire-field, begs in
at our window
I’ll bring you those moon flowers,
a blind but gentle sheep, a single
living star
Read more from Issue 16.2.
