Marrakech: the grey hairs of
Atlas, streaks of the light of years,
like truth accompanied by a bodyguard.
It is not war: the fast tumble
is no war, Nadia.
Two pendants, each of hearts, and
the silvery lock leashed unto time;
Is no war: but the travesty of distance,
And this moment, a full breast glistening
out of the moon, the darkened streets
and hooded, like the lawless,
stranger or wayfarer:
It is the pod streaking with milk
smelt so close, it vanishes,
like the gecko abandoning her tail.
