From Nomad Poems: Set Down Set Down.
Set down set down, in a Tunisian mining town, where young men
hang from doorless doors of light-rail trains and wave. Their river
is opaque, their canyon without trees, our hotel a faded jewel-box
blue with white botanicals, majolica and arabesque. We are
the only guests. In the entrance four boys sleep on tiles,
cocooned in sheets, their arms across their eyes, so incandescent
beaming barebone hot, this town of dust and street of dust,
and at the opening of day their fathers drink mint tea and wait.
Their practice is: behold the constancy of dawn. Their sun will
blossom holy red: incontestably it is a blooming rose.
All turn their heads to East, some wear white, some no shoes.
In this, the year before their spring. I imagine theirs the most
resplendent and the hardest place to live, as they, if they would
even glance my way, would have imagined mine.