A Pushcart at the Curb Part 14

Out of the voiceless wrestle of the night flesh rasping harsh on flesh a tune on a shrill pipe shimmers up like a rocket blurred in the fog of lives curdled in the moon's glare, staggering up like a rocket into the steely star-sharpened night above the stagnant moon-marshes the song throbs soaring and dies.

(Semiramis, Zen.o.bia lay too long in the moon's glare; their yearning grew sere and they died and the flesh of their empires died.)

On the pool of moonlight clots and festers a great sc.u.m of worn-out lives.

No sound but the panting unsatiated breath that heaves under the huge pall the livid moon has spread above the housetops.

I rest my chin on the window-ledge and wait.

There are hands about my throat.

Ah Bilkis, Bilkis where the jangle of your camel bells?

Bilkis when out of Saba lope of your sharp-smelling dromedaries will bring the unnameable strong wine you press from the dazzle of the zenith over the shining sand of your desert the wine you press there in Saba?

Bilkis your voice loud above the camel bells white sword of dawn to split the fog, Bilkis your small strong hands to tear the hands from about my throat.

Ah Bilkis when out of Saba?

_Pera Palace_