With a whip-flick
His wrist and hand flash:
The die clatters glassy
As a marble or pebble.
Everyone grumbles.
Circled and staring
Like nurses or surgeons
Intent on a patient,
These men fetch and pitch
Without pause,
The air cool and humid,
The flies languid.
The high yellowed ceiling
Is a grimy sky
Embossed with dusty circles,
Clouds or eyes. Pillars of
Mirrors hold everything up,
Wearing a nicotine film
Of talk and murky time.
The ceiling rattles back
Each clatter of the die.
Smoke spirals up
In small whirlwind storms
Spun on warm thermals
Of voices and closeness.
Slapping down,
Cards clap like hands.
(July 2, 1993)
(Photo: The medina, Tangier, 1993)
I was just saying how poetic your journal writing sounded and here you go getting all poetic. :)
ReplyDeleteMs. M
Love this!
ReplyDeleteI love this too! Especially these lines:
ReplyDeletePillars of
Mirrors hold everything up,
Wearing a nicotine film
Of talk and murky time.
The ceiling rattles back
Each clatter of the die.