Wind churning a daub of Haifa seawater into my eye. Tomorrow,
a strip of sunburn,
skin peeling auburn.
Word scuffing my throat at Qalandiya checkpoint
as a man nods and
click rotates metal bars. Word rasps at Ramallah windows facing
the burly settlements—No—even during autumn
weddings. Word nests like a sunflower seed between
teeth and only
later do I spit it out
beneath a harvest moon in Manhattan.