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With his dexterity as a writer
the Daily Telegraph
A silence hangs in the heart of it
for what comes next
Bone Fire Dhabiya Khamis With his dexterity as aThe bones are the bones of the poet integral to the landscape of her body. The bones are the spines of trees, the bone white of the moon. They belong to the hawk, the blackbird, the lion and the deer. They are, too, the bones of the dead and discarded, the martyred and maimed and the simply inconvenient. They are the bones of the forgotten, who have not forgotten us. The fire is love and lust a lovers tongue, a naked woman. Its the red stones of a