In Petra, we walked along
a rocky path towards the rose
colored stone temple—
just outside the entrance 
beggars sold ancient coins,
swords, and bits of pottery 
rubbed and weathered to look old.
 
The woman I loved smiled
for the first time that day,
our last together—
like the god Dushara 
and his consort 
we faded into the shadows
of rock and sand.
 
Poets may speak of loss
and regret but the next
day brought only
knives of zero
and the dawn’s empty hand.