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Sport 35: Winter 2007


page 172


A large fort on a hill needs
to find its way among boulders
and the green shrubs that thrive in sand.

Out of the reach of yellow stone
colour is persistent, but there are touches
of white in the flag, a half-life.

Battlements fall from the edge of
the frame, suddenly bashful, embarrassed
at having to seek directions.

An impression of curves.
Round turrets slide into verticals like
a knife, these wells that plumb

the absolute earth to drink
at stone walls and arches, doors without
glass, small flourishes in the face of God.

There's direction, sure enough.
High ceilings, light allowed to play
on tiled floors, but only small inlays.

Yellow it is. Fly whisks, an oil lamp,
heavy wooden furniture bound in iron,
walls stepped into the infinity of roof.

Each afternoon mosaics glow
at the hour of sleeping
when the fountains are restrained.

Birds then are quiet, and it is assumed
that flowers stop blooming, maybe
in deference to those who weep.