The Sunday morning streets are quiet
except for the sound of the cold pavement. ~a pilgrimage
they say there’s a place in the
Sahara where you can buy Jeeps
ride into the desert all the way to
Casablanca
electronic billboards replace neon
fountains decorate Souqs
vendors entice you with the
spoils of early morning
devil’s horns
roast goat heads
fly covered dung heaps
and kefir washed Shish Barak
north past the palm circled Camelots
taxis weave in and out of traffic under the
towers of Babel through the
maddened crowds
enterprising Sumerian chariot drivers
scribble their fares on clay tablets
1,000 dinar will take you
to the Northern regions
of Damascus
ghettos
urban sprawl and
the smell of industry
where concrete underpasses
open to a long silver ribbon between
snow-capped vistas and the
mountain passes of
the Moab
virgins bathe in that river
beneath the canyons
wave and say
Come!
you who travel the road to Salvation
the road to the land of the Saints
the road to the Sun where
Saint George once slew
the dragons of Zion; and
God now sleeps
Come!
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