In a terraced rose garden
we delicately sip afternoon tea
in cups made from the bones
of bison that once browsed
an ocean of grass.
Seeking equations, we talk
of neo-colonialism and drought
while history resurrects itself
beneath thirsty casuarinas & ironwood.
Lizards hieroglyph the dimpled sand—
the thin tropical soil, robbed of identity.
The ravenous night falls
like an axe from the sky.
The light trapped in coral sand
and the bone-white lilies of our arms
blossom under a full moon.
Heavy dampness in the sheets:
the fan toils in an empty room—
a pale shadow of the wind
no one will cipher.
Orange Beach, the Bahamas,
5/85; rev.7/30/93
No comments:
Post a Comment