Poetry‎ > ‎


A thousand shabby seagulls wheel and deal
at the port, where fish like mirrors cost
the sun its shine.
The cats, thin as eels, slink into doorways
as if swimming out of the way of bigger fish.
The donkeys are broken, a sad-eyed cliché.
Wind blows out the inside of each evening.
I want to strip everything back so all the walls
are white. Wherever I sleep, wherever you sleep.
So many black flies they punctuate the room;
they are dancing out their little deaths.

Women seal themselves into themselves, wrapped
into Burkas like parentheses.
The road is glazed by wind and heat, fields are stricken.
You don’t belong here.
Walk the length of light, fight dust. Walking to the next clause:
The guitars play backwards, the drum’s on fire, oh Medina.
See the dancers, you see them dancing grief
out of noise. Get out your big ideas, find out
how you go from here.
Leave your luggage at the door.