into the dust of the hillside
I walk with the businessmen through the scrub
to a pile of stones
that was once a shrine.
later, I walk with the students
past it, over the last hump
we watch the stars wash over the ridges
and the valley, the fields are grey
in the hotel, there is a garden
made of plastic flowers
with a plywood arch.
it was a long way, slow
on the bus
to get out of the city
in the heat of the conference room
they do the butterfly dance,
from the south—
No comments:
Post a Comment