and then our exile

this week went on my fourth (fifth?) run this semester, a half hour around the arena, and afterward faced mustafa's 'what's wrong man, you look like you're going to die'. the problem, i realized halfway through, was that i do not know (have forgotten) how to pace myself, and thus jog too fast, begin gasping too soon. (decided to slow down, follow a steady seven metres behind another runner, and was amazed at results.)

immediately i realized this i thought: 'this could be metaphor'. the familiar smile, dry and wry.

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directly after 'isha one evening, still on the musallah, a flare of light caught my eye through the window/ horizon of poplar and mayday. a star had just burst across the sky, burnt the sky, had streaked a short and brilliant path of a few milliseconds of hope.