The Sun House
A dark pink ginger petal
Curls round my wine glass stem,
As if to listen,
And I breathe in.
Frangipani trees watch,
As incense wisps through shuttered doorways,
Extinguishing inside on the
Scorched spines that stand in line,
Their perforations couching simpler times –
Joyce and Milton,
Sophocles and Ovid –
Mankind’s canon rests
Underneath these high ceilings,
And their enduring brocade.
A flickering breeze through palm leaf
At once a soothing balm and a fantasized being –
As I breathe out,
And place my glass on the table.