Tyler, I like I'm not going to reach 40 minutes, I can--
let's see.
I'm almost done.
I'm not used to--
I'm not used to reading--
poets are notorious for reading over time.
I'm usually on the opposite end of the spectrum,
under, so sorry.
This is the last poem in O. And it
is for Sur, which in English is Tyre, Lebanon, which is being
bombarded daily as we speak.
This is titled Morning Prayer for Sur, Lebanon, August 2018.
Thank you, God of coriander and spicy potato.
Thank you, peeling wooden rails.
Thank you, God of sea foam.
Thank you, red buoy bobbing on the water's surface.
Thank you, rock island in the distance.
Thank you, statue of our lady of the seas.
Thank you, harbor.
Thank you, sumac and the tomato placenta.
Thank you, blackberry jam on the peach flesh.
Thank you, fumes of the motorbikes.
Thank you, sombrero on the public beach.
Thank you, newborn baby in the balcony of your mother's arms.
Thank you, fat man with a big cross
tanning on the plastic chair.
Thank you, drenched clothes of the clotheslines.
Thank you, flip-flop girl, shouting curses in the alley.
Thank you, Mary of the small glass shrine.
Thank you, seagulls.
Thank you, horizon.
You are the goddess.
Thank you, cigarette butts.
Thank you, broken ship wheel on the seaweed stairs.
Thank you, full lipped cashier.
Thank you, God of silicone and hyaluronic acid.
Thank you, God of the sun.
Thank you, God of the bedsheets.
Thank you, Supermarket doorway, grandma with the braided hair.
Thank you, girl behind the phone camera,
searching for the God angle of your friend's face.
Thank you, hairs of my husband's beard.
Thank you, dough of my hips.
Thank you, old flag in the wind.
I hello you too.
Thank you songs of the colors on the walls, on the doors,
on the shutters.
Thank you, waves, with your ceaseless sh sh.
Thank you, stones of this fortress.
What have you seen?
Little boat, little boat.
Goodbye, little world, little world, I love you.
[APPLAUSE]