Richard Berengarten

When she sang in the bazaar

When she sang
in the bazaar, when she
uncurled her voice
a paid murderer swilling
coffee burned his lips
but did not curse
seven sparrows glancing
adoringly at airwaves
stayed put on their wire
five doped-out slaves
passing in chains lifted
stooped eyes, comprehending
the novice prayermaster
turned his head, his mouth
an awed O
and canny winds stopped
swirling, and blew seawards
orchestrally
____________________________________________________________
grace in white like a winged horse


Richard Berengarten