In a far-flung province
where the barkhans curve
like silver horns,
that fade to ashen shadows
as the sun dissolves horizon's rim,
an envoy's taedium vitae
is toasted in barbaric wine
that tastes of resin, alien
as honey mixed with brine.
The present deliquesces,
sending ripples through his spine
as heat mirage outside his parched,
penumbral room draws vapid lines;
illusion stirs a phantasm -
a girl in Rome, the rings she wore;
the roses of Pompeii,
buried deeper than the tomb…
In this forgotten outpost of the territory
subsumed by Rome,
he takes an ivory stylus,
starts a letter home,
choking on an image of her fingers
in chaste silver bands,
conjuring caresses
from her distant hands…
Scenes from the Periphery
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2004
Свидетельство о публикации №104091600099
Свидетельство о публикации №104091600099
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