Hala Alyan: Apology

They are burning tires in Tripoli.
        I bought new perfume, sulfurous,

the bottle of clouded glass. Know this:
        yours is the name that slid first to my lips

when the light became enormous
        and the anxious voices flared

like starlings, dozens of them, alit,
        alit. Only the rubber melts. Steel only chars

and the eclipse was disappointing,
        just moon rags and that vague smell of lemon.



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