In Memoriam Mahmoud Darwish

The exile dies and
finds he’s home

All lamented fig trees and
cups of pungent coffee

sweet steam in twists above them

All horses tied to fences
lonely without their donkeys

in long green pastures

All glimpses of far ocean
across the barbed wire of enemy territory

now held in a divinely vibrant wisp in the air
for a split second before dispersal

at lickety-split speed over the earth’s mirror
as the world’s top spins below

And the grieving exile opens his sapphire eyes
now polished to a precious sheen

on unforeseen landscapes not exactly
reassembled from the precise gazes in his

poems but partaking of certain
mosaic resemblances puzzled together

And also sees Paradise Gate open before him
and all his doubts and denials

now banished as brutally as he was
into inconsequential territories

afloat under fig trees
wrapped in fresh roasted

swirls of coffee

at home at last
among departed comrades