Desert

You were with the Sufi,

last time I looked,

holding on to his skirts,

as the red eyed hashishin,

offered you small glass cups of tea, 

sweeter then a child’s voice

from the damp sheets of a dream

I will look again, one day soon,

and I don’t know what to expect,

except a sand storm, 

crumbling ramparts, 

the slow hooves of a camel

and you, sheathed in silks,

protecting your eyes from the sun.