the pool
fills with water welling up through explosions of sand
fish and flowers

like the faces of the island
gods smiling
from green boughs

even the monster
that trails its hair through the forest
waves its dirty nails
turning men against themselves
with a few snaps of wooden jaws
can be laughed off stage

there are no graves but doors
tiny chairs
a little food
set out for the dead shrunk but still alive
who reappear
a bird a god a man
a dog

only we abandon life
cemeteries where nobody goes

when the last gong resounds
in the air-conditioned vacancy of hotels
the last peasant drops
his hoe in the crumbling fields
we will pack our bags
full of souvenirs
and leave

not even Siwa can call
souls back from our white corridors
silent from wall to wall

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