Afric Rain

The yellow Afric rain swept in

Between the market stalls,

Marble worn away where the foot treads.

The trace of his itinerary written in the divots  

Translates to the venerable tourist’s

Delight in the unreadable opening of a grave.

His manes went to hell and Carnival

Masks the meaning of his book.

Sheets of runoff wet the leather

Slapping at the alluvium,

Coming down on dust when the sun dries,

The old Sahara taking refuge in the stoa,

Pausanias half understanding all he sees.

Scimitars harangue the flights of better minds---

Clear blue thoughts that crack the goblet of the skull.

Take me out of Athens, Allah,

Further from the rubble of my home

And the stubble of our garden and

The burden of these bones.

To the new Europe and the clean rain,

The old religion. Take me to the simple pain.

Ship tops down harbor, all that roam

Come last to Rhodes,

The beating of an impossible sea,

The sharpest line east of the level eye.

Not a spec in all that blue

To speak of what we know

Will lap the mole of three windmills

And wash us when we dream,

When we ride the night horses,

Forgetful of the temple doors

Who break their hinges on the sky.