Bob Dylan on a Cold Couch

My fingers learn to do yoga.
They callous at the tips, and I
cannot feel you nearly as well.

Dylan learned to play guitar before
I was born. Had I been in 1950,
I would have run away from home.

Your banjo sings to my skin.
Goose-pimples are like snow-capped peaks
And your song skis my shoulders.

I sing in the car, and the shower,
and crossed-legged on your cold couch.
You prepare breakfast and green tea.

Sometimes fingers dance until
they are broken. Dylan didn’t want
to talk about that, either.

Dawn wakes us in the morning.
I laugh at everything now.
Let us perform on a small stage!

Ghazal 1

I am neither the rolling wave, nor the warm sand between your toes;

I am the savagery of the tide ripping away at the sea floor.

You were content to sunbathe beneath your golden curls;

I was left to pray to the desert sand for water.

All of my self-proclaimed, prophetic jetsam;

what weak ink to be sloshed upon your paper!

Now that the sun sets, you’ve come to comb for pearls;

my words are picked over, only broken shells remain.

No wonder I fall again, on knees encrusted with blood;

complete abandon, singing bhajans into the ocean.