By Nima Najafi-Kianfar

There is a building whose guards are doors,
men pressed into wood years ago;
they cannot open or close themselves.
Uniforms splinter what Iran calls their
service,
a surface that cannot tolerate any more
water.

Parcels of ash
rain on cloudless days
when things
are dreams.

Feel floors of red
promenades; faith twitching limbs
inched distances
finding refuge in
dollar-veiled walls.

Here is too late.
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They spelled Apacalipse! wrong.

Nima Najafi-Kianfar MFA ’09 was born in Iran and has lived in Germany and the United States. He received his B.A. in English from UCLA and MFA in Creative Writing from Saint Mary’s. He begins a doctoral program in poetry and international human rights and diversity at the University of Nebraska in fall 2009. This poem comes from a book-length poem titled Int. Persia.

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Moraga, CA 94575
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