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






grace                                                          in white                                              like a winged horse