Your tarantism, Soraya, like the cavorting
of tarpon in pterosaur-infected tarns, acts
to publicize the riding cymbals of Tarsus:
trouveres preceding Proudhon and Trotsky
have fallen in trouble with weeping willows,
lunette lungs lurch toward errant Galatea
brought to life in galley proofs, and knight
bachelors knit ogee arches in Mumbai.
(He taught me Reichian emotional release.)
Your viperfish vispassana, Soraya, hires
my high-resolution image as Hindutva’s
dosshouse, cryopreserved crystal net
recording the cosmographies of corsairs,
busking on the sidewalks of business cycles.