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A night on the dead sea.

Every bedroom is empty Every perfume vanished Every presence absent A curtain screens the dawn Painted palm silent birds From the cold night inside The darkened hotel flies away Toward some oneiric Far West Where the horse mounts the Indian Where the reddish salt of the cliffs Congeals into a statue as did Lot's wife in Sodom The transparent sun traces On the skin on the dried salt Crystals unlikely jewels To offer to her On the bituminous banks, Who sings of sleep, the fortunate season.
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Author:Martory, Pierre; Ashbery, John
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Date:Sep 1, 1993
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