Sunday, 8 September 2013


Sheets posed, immaculate, stretched like skin,
A sealed envelope tucked and folded, broken into.
A journey  begun makes outcasts of the prepared;  
covers rucked- a disorder of  sleep and lust.
We are adrift on this altar of broken slats,
sagging foam, dipping like a pot holed road,
a gradient that  slides our sleep.
The headboard, an ugly tombstone,
rattles to our oblivion, drums against the wall.

Afterwards, in furrows, we find crumbs,
and search for love’s lost trinkets;
an earring, hair pins, a tiny Fatima’s hand pointing
to  stains of darkening continents, kohl,
a long, dark hair curling - a river discovering itself,

In the microbus, along the Corniche,
where a pharoah wept 
and  waves mount concrete,
I sense the bed in mourning,
imprints of our limbs fading,
a fallow field awaiting spring.
Beyond its borders we are lost, untangled.
The day shortens like a burning cigarette.
We turn back to what has started:
an opened letter, hardly read.


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