My flying carpet

My flying carpet
with desert sand
between the tufts
and scent of spices
rayhan and zatar
in other words
basil and thyme
way more fragrant
pronounced by
a strangers mouth

You fly me near
the sea surface
I feel the chill
in my naked feet

From far above
the villages look
like circuit cards
Days over cities
nights inside bars
fringes are beating
with the darbuka
pulse and breath
Weight of bodies
flying in the rain
of a dark warm
cloudless night

My flying carpet
still lying carpet
in a windowless
room in Sweden

The three minutes
between dawn
and falling asleep
on salt wet tuft
that is the time
when we fly