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The Orientalist
He went back to drafting policies of state
but never forgot the courtesan
in the Sanskrit play.
She wrote him letters on pages folded
in triangles like betel leaves
but did not wait for the beloved and spring;
creepers soothed her, her
lamp-lit hours passed
among the scented shadows of lovers.
Quietus
Silence is clean, a frigate leaving a harbour
with no siren wailing.
Silence is a tureen that needs no scouring
for the last stains of
grammar.
Silence is fire,
a threat with no reprieve.
Silence is a panther
that stalks us through jade eyes.
Shore leave
The sea floods your canals, heaves at your gates:
inside you, our child
learns the sail-maker's art.
Vigil
Lover, listening at the keyhole,
married to a whisper on the phone,
the
rustle of a dress.
How many rivals he has shot
across the hedges
of sleepless nights.
Hiding behind the arabesques
of the mirror, scarf knotted tight
as his
breath, conspirator.
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