In three days I will be forever older than you,
Your notes are in my black knapsack that I carry on my back,
Waiting to be copied and dispersed…copied and dispersed.
If I could grow wings,
They would be index cards;
A typed list of names,
Each word burning your death into my spine,
Each Persian name a bloody stamp.
Behbahani, Seyyed Mohsen
Gharani, Mohammed Vali
(I spy with my little eye),
Is there a clue here?
I am full of you and the mystery of your death,
Each name is dead and this is the clue.