You think of gracious ladies, I of gents: not so
young, dressed in rain. We are quiet, mad, like drummers looking
for a band. We turn over the soil, marvel at
our tranquillity. All’s well in Paris, according to
the TV. Magic roofs of thatch have descended
creating brown shadows. A rustle and bark, but no
dog in the yard. We’ve seen the international
children crying at the graves of Tutenkhamen. They’re
on tour like us. Cairo’s Proust iguanas his gay
eyes, his gay neck. The sacred lawns are being mown. Mainland
ways. Five minutes sunshine, then Fleur-de-Lys Island.
The attitude of the pottery up there’s chilly. We
throw rocks at its crimson calm. I’d come to imprint
the sky on my green-gold mind. At first I felt flush, vain
boggled. Cooing images of the lotused ground.
Sunny creature, resting through spring ... grace to be visible.