I'm like an old hound dog sleeping in the summer dust: wretched with his sack of jewels, nonetheless pure and blessed with incantatory snoring all through the heat, faithful to Mercy, disturbed into irrational barking, then suddenly licking the hand that feeds me. This heat will finish me, like the potter's kiln-fire. This old dog will hold water. The hell fire's for the cold blooded. Passionate, I dream of old widows returned to virginity along bright shores of divinity. I howl to the harmonica and the ney. At the sundown call to prayer, all the dogs of Antep howl for the merciful glow between white hot heat and the desolation of stars.
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I can feel the scorch just by reading this. Great write, as always, Joe.