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river
        & the men grew silent
    The builders
    busy themselves with great rafts
        at the water’s edge
             on the morrow
    we again set our faces
        to the East
    Tonight
                   wind    birds
    fill the air
        the clacking of their bills
    like iron on iron
    The wind
                   is steady is fragrant
        with jasmine
    trail of the country behind us
    The wind moves
                   through the camp
    stirs the tents of
    the Hetaeri
        touches each
    of the sleeping soldiers
    Euoi! Euoi!
        men cry out
    in their sleep & the horses
                   prick their ears & stand
        shivering
    In a few hours
    they all shall wake
        with the sun
    shall follow the wind
                   even further
The Mosque in Jaffa
    I lean over the balcony of the minaret.
    My head swims.
    A few steps away the man who intends
    to betray me begins by pointing out
    key sights —
    market church prison whorehouse.
    Killed, he says.
    Words lost in the wind but
    drawing a finger across his throat
    so I will get it.
    He grins.
    The key words fly out —
    Turks Greeks Arabs Jews
    trade worship love murder
    a beautiful woman.
    He grins again at such foolishness.
    He knows I am watching him.
    Still he whistles confidently
    as we start down the steps
    bumping against each other going down
    commingling breath and bodies in the narrow spiralling dark.
    Downstairs, his friends are waiting
    with a car. We all of us light cigarettes
    and think what to do next.
    Time, like the light in his dark eyes,
    is running out as we climb in.
Not Far from Here
    Not far from here someone
    is calling my name.
    I jump to the floor.
    Still, this could be a trap.
    Careful, careful.
    I look under the covers for my knife.
    But even as I curse God
    for the delay, the door is thrown open
    and a long-haired brat enters
    carrying a dog.
    What is it, child? (We are both
    trembling.) What do you want?
    But the tongue only hops and flutters
    in her open mouth
    as a single sound rises in her throat.
    I move closer, kneel
    and place my ear against the tiny lips.
    When I stand up—the dog grins.
    Listen, I don’t have time for games.
    Here, I say, here—and I send her away
    with a plum.
Sudden Rain
    •
    Rain hisses onto stones as old men and women
    drive donkeys to cover.
    We stand in rain, more foolish than donkeys,
    and shout, walk up and down in rain and accuse.
    •
    When rain stops the old men and women
    who have waited quietly in doorways, smoking,
    lead their donkeys out once more and up the hill.
    •
    Behind, always behind, I climb through the narrow streets.
    I roll my eyes. I clatter against stones.
Balzac
    I think of Balzac in his nightcap after
    thirty hours at his writing desk,
    mist rising from his face,
    the gown clinging
    to his hairy thighs as
    he scratches himself, lingers
    at the open window.
    Outside, on the boulevards,
    the plump white hands of the creditors
    stroke moustaches and cravats,
    young ladies dream of Chateaubriand
    and promenade with the young men, while
    empty carriages rattle by, smelling
    of axle-grease and leather.
    Like a huge draught horse, Balzac
    yawns, snorts, lumbers
    to the watercloset
    and, flinging open his gown,
    trains a great stream of piss into the
    early nineteenth century
    chamberpot. The lace curtain catches
    the breeze. Wait! One last scene
    before sleep. His brain sizzles as
    he goes back to his desk—the pen,
    the pot of ink, the strewn pages.
Country Matters
    A girl pushes a bicycle through tall grass,
    through overturned garden furniture, water
    rising to her ankles. Cups without handles
    sail upon the murky water, saucers
    with fine cracks in the porcelain.
    At the upstairs window, behind damask curtains,
    the steward’s pale blue eyes follow.
    He tries to call.
    Shreds of yellow note paper
    float out onto the wintry air, but the girl
    does not turn her head.
    Cook is away, no one