Unfolded letters

Jama Masjid

Out of the mouth of it flung pigeons ride the call.
One hundred eagles are above the fort.
There is a warm egg of something on my tongue.
It is making peace and slips thick as fog amongst my teeth.
It tastes of the core, of always and of space in the mind.
It smells as new as the end. It is something like the
Twenty seven jasmine in my hand. It is: I am here.
February 2008