When she sang in the bazaar

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

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grace                                                          in white                                              like a winged horse