on the first day of eid, on the steps outside          
the archaeological museum, baba and i watch

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a building across the valley from us smother       
                itself in smoke, ‘shoofi keef the whole hill

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       glimmers with broken glass’, baba says,        

            cigarette steady between his fingers.        

 

                        under the same sun of our city’s oldest selves,
                                amon, philadelphia, etc., i think it no          

 

                 small thing – our city set aflame like this,    
                            minaret calls circling the smoke.