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The tongue of my lover
parts lips like a prophet
separating sea from sea.

In Baku, there is an altar
to Ahura Mazda, where
fire seeps from some old

fault of earth. We leave
wine made from honey,
and a gourd of goat curd.

From the time of Alexander
they have dragged the dead
to the mouth of the mountain.

Zarathustra divides the righteous,
separating joint from marrow,
edge of his terrible sword.

A hundred and one names for God.
Tonight, we will speak them all.
Prayers of the faithful are smoke.

https://www.google.com/url?sa=i&source= ... 9548763147

This is well-written and imagined, but it doesn't have the staying power of most of your poems. I'm not sure how to fix it or if you want to. Maybe go a little deeper as to why this stuff caught your interest in a more personal way.

Thanks Billy. Sometimes, all I can do is write the poem.
I'm OK if it turns out not to be a good poem. Appreciate your feedback.

A fascinating and intriguing poem....the lines are well written, but I think the poem needs a narrator who makes us feel his vulnerability, or if he isn't vulnerable, makes it clear why this place is so meaningful to him personally

Thanks Bob.