And the lover cried out—
I burned my youth...

The hands of the clock
are not accidental...

They made this world
out of corporeal shapes...

My hands upon yours,
upon you...

Motions multiply
between the facing mirrors...

Tomorrow’s pantry,
I fed on stored-up wanting...

Annihilation of proportions,
zero before the count...

Behind the vastness of my scars,
scarcely lives a man...

Like a dancer—
her dress twirling...

The little squares of Tehran Pars (*
repeated themselves...

Purple dragonfly
resting on a yellow bloom...

The sky is brimming
with stars when our eyes are freed...