Marrakech

 1 – The Souks:   day       

The boy with fire in his eye & the quick hands of a thief shuttles us
beyond the chickens & lame donkeys to see how wood is seduced
from a block to a box & lacquered & inlaid with silver & stone &

copper is twisted & bent & scored & etched & polished &

the tattooed hands of women & roasted dates which hum against the
gums & snakes which bite & monkeys & Iguanas which do not . . . &

mint tea & honey cakes & a single carpet sixty feet across &

deep in the interior on a darkened street we’re led to the peddler of bones
who dances his fingers across a board shuttling skulls & knuckles & toes
down the alleys of my life which throb & narrow & glow  . . .


2 – The Souks:    night

Men.   & the aroma of  roasting meat & fish fried crisp & boiling pots of
broth & cous-cous piled high with diced tomatoes & roasted eggplant &
chicken & almonds & onions &

Men.   Eager & jostling & eyeing the foreign women who’ve come to see
& the air thickens & the air stiffens &

a dozen lanterns create pockets of light where young boys box for money
& musicians & singers & some stop for a meal & some for a sweet & the
menu is the same & the menu is different &
  
Men . . . call you to ‘Come’ & ‘Sit’ & ‘Taste’ & chanting & drumming &
you may be tossed from your place & whirled around or running

the dark streets where cars & carts converge & you cannot breathe &
cannot remove your mask but dance to the drum with your caftan stained
& beard askew & a thin chain that glistens on your neck & . . . Men . . .