Sleep in the Mojave Desert
Out here there are no hearthstones, / Hot grains, simply. It is dry, dry.
The prince leans to the girl in scarlet heels,
Her green eyes slant, hair flaring in a fan
Of silver as the rondo slows; now reels
Begin on tilted violins to span
The whole revolving tall glass palace hall
Where guests slide gliding into light like wine;
Rose candles flicker on the lilac wall
Reflecting in a million flagons' shine,
And glided couples all in whirling trance
Follow holiday revel begun long since,
Until near twelve the strange girl all at once
Guilt-stricken halts, pales, clings to the prince
As amid the hectic music and cocktail talk
She hears the caustic ticking of the clock.
Out here there are no hearthstones, / Hot grains, simply. It is dry, dry.
My thoughts are crabbed and sallow, / My tears like vinegar,
In Benidorm there are melons, / Whole donkey-carts full
Overnight, very / Whitely, discreetly,