Caper's Poets

In The Dunes — Ray Sharp

2 a.m., 2-below, bivouacked downstairs

under the south window, adrift

in the dunes with Port and Kit.

We’re bouncing in the back of the truck

from El Ga’a to Sbâ , sirocco blown grains

of snow, typhoid fever death chill gale –

only one of us will return.

Down, down the deep well of night

paralyzed by the thought that

the sky hides the night behind it,

shelters the person beneath

from the horror that lies above.

Consulting Madame La Hiff’s Gypsy Dream Dictionary

waiting for a sign in the indolent heat.

Later – has it been minutes or weeks?

– the full moon breaks through the ground blizzard

like a midday Sahara sun.  I wish I were

on the terrace of the Café d’Eckmühl-Noiseux

under the awning a-flap in the soft evening breeze

reading the maps, or on the surface of the immaculate moon

aloft in the center of the sheltering sky.


Filed under: Issue 2, Ray Sharp

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