He would have to settle for an unmarked grave, if you could call it that, and his bleached white bones, stripped clean by wild dogs in a dry riverbed on the outskirts of Kabul, not unlike the one he ... [+]
She slept on the worn patchwork quilt
of the sky.
When she woke up,
she dreamt that her house was flying,
that a witch rode by—
past the clouds, on a bicycle.
Where was the air going?
The wind poured out from her eyes.