For Ibrahim Marzouk

From early dusk the day was inscrutable

The sun shows up, lazy as usual

A mineral ash, eastward, blocks the horizon. . .

In the veins of clouds

In household pipes

The water was hard. . .

A desperate autumn in the life of Beirut

***

Death spread from the palace

to the radio to the salesman of sex

To the vegetable market

***

What is it wakes you now?

Exactly five o'clock

And thirty people killed

Go back to sleep

It is a time of death and a time of fire

***

Ibrahim was a painter

He painted water

He was a deck for lilies to grow on

And terrible if woken up at dawn

***

But his children were spun of lilac and sunlight

They wanted milk and a loaf of bread

***

Inscrutable day. My face

A telegram made of wheat in a field of bullets

What is it wakes you now

Exactly five o'clock

And thirty people killed

***

Bread never had this taste before

This blood this whispering texture this grand apprehension complete essence this voice this time this colour this art this human energy this secret this magic this unique movement from the cavern of origin to

the gang war to the tragedy of Beirut

***

At exactly five o'clock

Who was dying?

***

Into his hands Ibrahim took the last color

Color of the secrets in the elements

A painter and a rebel he painted

A land teeming with people, oak trees, and war

Ocean waves, working people, street vendors, countryside

***

And he paints

In the miracle of bread