MacedonianI would start with its breadth. Acidity, pH.
It walks like a woman:
between the massacre of the unseen
and the concentration camp of visibility.
It bellows style and polish,
a neighbourly epic.
In the poem, language
falls on its own deaf ears,
the words amplify
their circle of friends.
You need to frig the alphabet
till it spouts
unlikely links
The changing gears of chatter,
the tell of another order.
The mosquito’s smile in the amber.
It’s not that you don’t get Arabic.
You don’t get
poetry.
