Le paradis n'est pas artificiel …

April 11, 2004

continued cantos

Whereas in Lao's North

jungle wet, bugs wings

on barbeque, limes and green

papaya, chili, river water

drying on the skin, fish,

baguettes, thick coffee

salted rice, stray dogs and wild

bananas, and one's own

humbling sweat

in the plum shadows


      I take in

dark afternoon heat

going on

another rattler

tin can bus. I'm utterly

relieved when en route

in the river, eating fried rice

out of my lover's palms;

the fish soup maman gave us,

with peering river eyes

and garden squash;

the smell of paraffin

candles on hot old tins,

the card deck on wood

tables, that mix

of lao-lao and cicada

song of jungle winds.

I ask, and they know:

they're happy here ---

they'll leave if they have to,

taking all of this with them.

Posted by Delire at April 11, 2004 11:59 AM
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