THE DESERT WANDERER
Port Moresby, and Kit, together tell me little.
The winds of Tangiers are hurtful. I want to
remain the sole man adrift : walking in my fog,
desirous of many things but nothing.
I sit at this twisted table watching natives shine.
The walk and they shimmy as if everything that
was natural ever was - a stuffy clerk walks by
me, his silly British hat like a beacon on a
lighthouse, in a brute and deadly mist.