Tuesday, February 25, 2014

Bob Marcacci

                                  catching up with Angela
                         you finally made it here and we went out together
           desert sun burned into us
                           the end of that month
                 walking across dirt clods          sand
                    drivers stopped to ask if we needed help
                              Vito walked in the shade of a wooden wall
                                    we turned back
                       wasted by heat                sweat
                                                                 defeated memes
                               those first few days
                                    admiring mosques
                                                                                   back inside
                                                             watch the clock willing
                                            a gecko poised in the corner
                                               turned toward a number
                                          not there


lacking alcohol
                                            drink a tall glass
                                     Florida’s natural brand
                                    premium grower’s style
                                                 most pulp orange juice
                                                                              a break from planning
                                                    arguments in writing
                                                            now myself
                                                         writing poetry
    or some kind
                                                  of narrative
                                                of the unknown
                                                Islam autumn
                                                i don’t know where
                                                  i’m going
                                                    i look at numbers
                                           five minutes have elapsed
                                                look again at the clock
                                                 no change
                                                    empty glass on counter
                                                all lights on in an empty

      we fade
     we who
     read     :     hurried
  we page turn and to
       each we love
      we improve
our desert home
     we hope
    we roam closer
     we dote


                                    Arabic numerals in their natural
                                                     sleep bends my head lower
                                    traffic hushes past the compound

    some great moment passed
          mark some coincidence
  in what dark fold
    some told of Al Khor
     we remain the roadside attraction
greater than we were
                                     words                  worms
       worried                look out
     across chain-link                   white brick
    expanse                sun turns scarlet
long straight highway

           wind tones
          around buildings
       presses against windows
      brings its desert salaam
                                  sand from Saudi
     its midnight demand and racket
       shakes screens in Riyadh
                                 almost screams
          curtains breathe
        and wind whines madly          man
         in moments
            nearly asleep


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