Another morning in March, I am woken up by the phone ringing. A voice I recognize as my mother’s As I slowly drop my grogginess like a blanket.

I imagine her calling from that dimly lit Distant room, as she tells me to do something today, After wishing me happy birthday, many Returns (or is it reruns?) of the day etc.

I nod as I see how one corner of the window That faces southeast is already bronze. The pink quince, I had placed in the water Last evening, have already paled.

I tell myself not to thread metaphors Of dread, death and dying into things. Let the ideas about living be separate From life, as being alone is from silence.

There I shall shuttle between work and the job That enables me to do this work I am meant to do in long hours of the years left, This slow fashioning of required lines and nets.

The call had ended and I am here working.

He waits, First for a letter from a distant Country. He then waits To go to this country. He goes to the country and waits For the renewal of letters That have stopped coming.

He waits For conversations. He waits To be seen. He waits for songs And poems. He waits for the full Moon every day.

He waits, Clouds drift over it, It hides behind Curtains of lace, curtains of linen, Behind the black hair of a woman Whom the Arabs call Layla. He waits To see her rapturous face.

He waits, Sprouts roots, sprouts branches, The wind laughs at him, the rain Disguises his tears. Woodpeckers Drill his torso. He sees water, He sees people kissing in his shadow.

He waits For someone to bring him news Of the traveler. Only rumors reach Him these days. Some say she Never was and the road has no beginning. Some say she was delayed by wars, Others say that her bones have been licked Clean by lions and vultures in some desert.

He waits Always full of doubt - the negation Of belief, negated by this wait. Time moves on a straight line Which bends at the horizon To arc into a circle.

He moves on Time. Everybody does.

Whenever I put myself thru A washer-dryer of words, Some of which strike others as poetic, I wonder if I will ever be able to freely Unfurl my own tongue.

A tongue that speaks mostly to itself, In that language it has read often But had never heard another tongue speak. The anguished language of laughter, Of pained expression and of what is often Failed communication.

A tongue that becomes an object of self hate, A tongue that people squint at when it is wagged As if the tap of flesh against teeth is a secret code, As if the air blowing out of the gullet is a vaudeville act, As is the glaze in their eyes is not a change of channels, But only unexpected problems with my audio system.

So yes, check! 1-2-3, check! There I finally have your attention. Here take this page and wave it, Yes, wave it like a flag. This is my tongue.