From the Fishouse

When she sang
in the bazaar, when she
uncurled her voice

a paid murderer swilling
coffee burned his lips
but did not curse

seven sparrows glancing
adoringly at airwaves
stayed put on their wire

five doped-out slaves
passing in chains lifted
stooped eyes, comprehending

the novice prayermaster
turned his head, his mouth
an awed O

and canny winds stopped
swirling, and blew seawards
orchestrally

____________________________________________________________
grace in white like a winged horse