Sunday, July 22, 2018

Where the desert blooms
our caravans come together.

Wares unloaded,
we give the camels to drink,
send our sellers
and buyers to bargain
over coffee.

We burrow in a bed of furs
and hold to each other.

The sun turns its face.
In silver gown,
the moon stands guard
outside our tent.

Our skins heal into one
till sliced by light reverting
and needled by calls of camel drivers.