Any Schéhérazade at Any Window

Don Russ

His garden breathes one blue night
with all the star-deep gardens of the sky,
its moon-white peacock walled,
unwalled, as free as she.
She turns into the room,
her shadow-deepened eyes like corridors,
and says, the world is in our head–
all heavens, hells.
He knows a moment’s strangeness,
a palace labyrinth his no more, a doorway
just opening onto dread.
Listen, she says.

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