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it not been
for the other, this would never have happened.

A shadow harem
    Wisely, firmly, yet gently, he had rescued and retrieved
her lost cash. And what was the outcome? Simply
that in another day or two she would pluck her underwear
off the washing line, blow him a kiss, and vanish. The wrong
had been righted, but an invisible hand, not his own,
certainly not his right hand, possibly his left, had mockingly
frustrated him. Fear not. It was not in vain. With her going, the shade
of the dead one will surely return to be with you.
And hers too. The shades of two women. And Bettine as well.
A shadow harem under the shade of your roof.

Rico considers bis father's defeat
    Dad's sitting reading a paper. Dad's watching the news headlines.
His face is pained, like a disappointed teacher: reprimanding, chiding
the state of the world whose antics really go
too far. The time has come to take steps. He has
made up his mind to respond severely.
    My father's severity is ineffectual. A poor mans severity. Weary fading
powerless. Instead there is a touch of sadness about him, an air of
resignation. He is not a young man. He's just a humble citizen.
What difference can he make
with his puny cane. And sometimes my father quotes the verse:
As the sparks fly upward, man is born unto labor. But what is he trying
to say to me? That I should fly upward? Or get a job? Not to fight
lost battles? My father's severity. His defeated shoulders.
Because of them I left. To them I shall return.

Rico reconsiders a text he has heard from his father
    And there's another great text in Job that he quotes to me
so that I'll remember that properly and possessions are
not the most important thing: Naked came I forth from my mother's womb
and naked shall I return thither. So what is the point of the race to amass
and hoard so-called belongings. My father is blind
to the hidden secret of this verse: her womb
is waiting for me. I came forth. I shall return. The cross on the way
is less important.

The cross on the way
    He circles aimlessly around. And returns. Between one sleep and the next
he barely wakes. He travels from village to remote village. A day here a day
there. He meets Israelis, what's new back home, and falls asleep. He meets
women, exchanges a first signal and gives up. Like a tortoise.
On his travels he has crossed three or four maps. So what if he crosses
yet another, more valleys. Another climb. This view has run out.
His money too, almost. With a little luck he'll make it to Bangkok,
where the money his father sent is waiting. And then Sri Lanka. Or Rangoon.
In the autumn he'll go home. Or not. By a feeble light in a hostel, lying
neither sleeping nor waking, like an invalid waiting for it to become clear
one way or the other, seeing on the sooty ceiling stains of mountains
suspended between one shadow and the next. Not to climb but to find
a way in, or a way through, an opening, or a narrow crack, through which

Seabed bird
    Shortly before my death a bird on a branch enticed me.
Narimi its
feathery down touched me wrapped all of me
in a marine afterbirth.
    Night after night, my widower weeps on his pillow, where has she gone
whom my soul loves. My orphan child is wandering far, conjuring omens.
Child bride you are their wife, you have my nightdress,
you have their love. My flesh is wasted. Set me as a seal.

He hesitates, nods and lays out
    He returns from Bettine's when the power is restored and sits for a while
on the veranda alone. It is still August but the night is almost chilly, the cool
of the sea is an advance payment on the autumn. Around one o'clock,
five already in Bhutan, he drinks some chilled fruit juice
and goes to bed. Who knows who she is out on the town with
at this moment, she must be shivering in her light clothes. He gets up
and spreads a blanket on her bed and then hesitates,
nods and lays out on her pillow a blue nightdress,
because she is bound in her sleep to kick off the blanket.

Outsiders
    Now for a riddle: what if