I am jealous of it
She robs me of  my evenings
Lures you . . .
With news,
Stories,
And secrets . . .
That to you become more important than my secrets
It is the Sheherazade
Ravishing nightly my Shahriyar


I am jealous of it
She lies in wait at my pillow
Absorbing the pouring of my clouds
And the after-rain smell of earth
Destroying all,
Effacing with letters
My own fingerprints


O! would I were
The very ink
In this newspaper.