Marrakesh, by jkd

After Beverley Bie Brahic's Heads I

Preternatural orange is the eye
behind the glasses. And violet to the west where peacocks
preen between bushes, plush green
of gutters by sandstreets. Soon carpet
salesmen with their musical caterwauling
lure the western-garbed tourists inside

I lift from my bedroll, weak-armed,
the pale day carrying me like something departing
carved to what’s left of bulk’s skeletal
settling its invisible remains in a corner
of the remote sidewalk. Hand to wall to
tracing its own path homeward.