Qais surely must have been so loved in return that he is now know, in legend, as Majnoon, the possessed.

You dream of him tonight as you remember that country of rain, its dripping water,

like her unfurled tresses, slowly freeing you from the stone you had become.

You dream of him tonight as you are poised in a fever of the body, water vanished,

wind turning cold in the avenues, the principality of love withdrawn, eyes hollowed like begging bowls.

You wonder about the miracle that is being possessed. You hunger for it, hunger for love in return,

and a slow dispossession of the self, the way leaves are leaving trees here in New York.