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on these stiffen white star fish;
on these I slip bare footed!
Whispers of the fishy air touch my body;
“Sisters,” I say to them.
HISTORY
I.
A wind might blow a lotus petal
over the pyramids—but not this wind.
Summer is a dried leaf.
Leaves stir this way then that
on the baked asphalt, the wheels
of motor cars rush over them,—
gas smells mingle with leaf smells.
Oh, Sunday, day of worship! ! !
The steps to the museum are high.
Worshippers pass in and out.
Nobody comes here today.
I come here to mingle faiance dug
from the tomb, turquoise colored
necklaces and belched wind from the
stomach; delicately veined basins
of agate, cracked and discolored and
the stink of stale urine!
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