Buttered bread.
The sun endures, tenuously.
A failing hotel still holds
All tiles, surfactant,
Still hold the tension of
Labor, pieced by
Hands, those of string players
Patterning sound,
And those hands
Of men bellow the rampart
Knitting wool caps by the sea,
Brown wool pearled into
Buttery wool.
From the rooftop terrace, smell
Tea, crushed leaves
Steaming cool de menthe
Joined by sugar
Cubes fatter than fingers. Crystals
Deluster a polymer-orange
Tablecloth.
Desires
Mistaken for humidity
Rise pink from the medina-center
And fall
On a stamen from a sticky moon.
This sucre castle, larger than
Historical Hotel Splendide at dusk, beyond
Rabat, the dream port-of-entry,
Is Essouira. Here
Atop the night tower,
Ocean recalls lashes of salt to herself,
So sweetness may
Prevail in the crash and roar,
Like rose in the gazelle horns, or
Smooth skin
Admired by firelight, yet
Untouched.
Over this rooftop terrace, stars
Must disguise the beyond,
Lest the black ocean
Meld with the heavy air
And, being of one mind,
Lap at the troughs of distance
Between handsome strangers.
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