Once before in his life, Ghazi had been through a wait like this. The sickest of the sick liked these waits. They wanted your fear to root in you like a burning stick. Your helplessness was their honey. They could suck on it for a long time. He had thought in some cases it was better to succumb, to plead crazily, because that was what they wanted and expected and had crafted for you to do. To remain inside himself, untouchable, serene, was to invite rage and worse. He considered the possibilities. This man, who was obviously some kind of secret police, could kill him, because Ghazi, asylum application or not, was an illegal, a nonperson. This shirtsleeve one liked very much that this was so. Ghazi was certain he had killed many, though he could not do it too often, or his ability to keep doing it would be threatened. So the question was, when was the last time this one had killed another such as Ghazi? If it was long ago, Ghazi was soon to be joining his predecessor. If it was recent, Ghazi might be spared. Now he was singing with the radio. He had turned up the volume.

but on the other hand
is a golden band
that reminds me of someone
who would not understand

Ghazi decided it was safe to look. The man’s eyes were closed, his chin jerking in the air as he sang. This was outside anything Ghazi knew. This man had no interest in Ghazi’s pinned chest and blood-wet mouth. He didn’t enjoy his suffering. What was he thinking? Ghazi felt a needle of panic. The weather came on the radio. The man pressed a button, then again. Another song came on. After a bit, he turned up the volume.

like a circle in a spiral
like a wheel within a wheel
never ending or beginning
on an ever-spinning reel
like a snowball down a mountain
or a carnival balloon
like a carousel that’s turning
running rings around the moon
and the world is like an apple
whirling silently in space
like the circles that you find
in the windmills of your mind

It was so loud the windows were vibrating. Ghazi tried to look to the other side of the highway. How could it be that not one other car was here?

like a tunnel that you follow
to a tunnel of its own
down a hollow to a canyon
where the sun can never show
like a door that keeps revolving
in a half-forgotten dream
or the ripples from the pebbles
someone tosses in a stream

Ghazi began to cry. Quietly at first, the tears came. His chest had been replaced by pain.

where’s the jingle in your pocket
where’s the jangle in your head
why did summer go so quickly
was it something that you said
lovers walk along the shore
leave their footprints in the sand
is the sound of distant drumming
just the fingers of your hand