Recording A Star’s Orbit

I’m thinking again of Sarita’s frenzy,

of confusion parties fed by

bullwhip teamsters, Marseille gunmen,

skyline riders leaving on a raid–

waxing moon illuminating a path,

waning moon cloaking a return.

Calculations made by Nokia phone

leave a bristle beard of 7 days growth,

8 days groaning with worry.

Staring from a railroad hotel,

windows facing rain-spotted walls,

amused allure, lechery and dismay

flicker across your face.

The river wants the storm, you say.

In our impatience, we confess

a rage of greed, of searing need.

Too tired to harrow contradiction

from mawkish claim,

from sinister claim,

we shatter.

Summer sandals flipped

beneath the bed, we’re both

barelegged, barefoot,

staring off the balcony.

Whorling below us,

parasol hustlers,

moped and motorbike

exhaust the street.

End Times messengers flatter

us with their devotions.

Sated, a little shocked,

we stroke hands and hips,

watch a distant caravan

cross the cavern bridge.

Muezzins’ call graces mid-day,

brightens the stroke to evening.

Every sound, each scene—

prayer bow, her scent of sandalwood,

exalts the moment.

A Vanity Sequence

Waking to the necessary

half-glass of Scotch

I roll to the open window,

the view a fabric of

diamond-glinting dew,

blue-petal clematis.

Moon-gazing chair a comfort,

I’ll sit the terrace

half-buzzed before breakfast,

Sleepy conversations, trailing flattery

of robin’s song, cardinal’s song,

evaluations that aren’t sardonic,

not closure but absolution

scatter to span the day.

Memorising every morning move,

summer sings in me.