Near the salt flats on the southern most tip, where the buildings turn white,
white like the sun, white like the dust, white like the cross that rests at the top;
a peacock plays night watchman to the well preserved and white walled souls.
At last light as I’m getting old, I see the advantage of a parallel life,
For this is where the rosemary grows.
Bats sweep the water, looping the tropic of cancer’s forgotten daughter,
Like the beats between their wings, we exist here in imaginings.
Without a whisper from the moon the sea begins to move,
And the ships sway like abacuses, counting the chaos of the code.
You heard between the words.
At night light mixes on the water, and along the event horizon
holograms meet in emerald coloured rooms
where all the walls have suicide doors, so you can start again,
with no more pain than a bruise.
But the sun comes up too soon, white like the moon, white like
the long column that runs down my back, flat like the salt planes except for that.
Arabic coffee blots out my dreams, patchy reality comes sneaking in,
across the valleys with the mist, I am the creator of the glitch.
Breakfast casts my face in silver, and two date trees swing,
eking out the echoes of as yet unspoken things.
I’ve been silent for a while now, in hot velvet glimmering.