The underside of the table Has colours like the Sphinx In one of those arch Murder mystery telemovies Where white men in white suits Pontificate on how the Mamaluk Beys were defeated by Napoleon With the help of an ancient desert curse Discovering Thebes, Dendera and Philae In the wake of Janissaries fleeing Their horses hooves curving up A sandstorm’s furied face For the uncomfortable planar shapes Of magic carpets to ride on Eating the uneven edge As if the broad, contemplative forehead Of Africa had a migraine The pry ram ids seen from space tack sharp The women pouring jewels In elegantly panelled dining rooms Of cruise ships much too big For undredged river beds Discussing losses at baccarat With the vestal aplomb Of supremely innocent naïveté Prophets in reed baskets Floating amongst the crocodiles Muttering chemin de fer Derricks and dirigibles emerging From a postcard landscape Smoke haze from the burning A pink stamp on the wood Almost wholly illegible As if the substrate were once Prime meat, now the ancient dead But curled up quietly Amongst the galleried forest Of laminate and spindle legs The close carpet smell With the noisy zigzag pattern So full of time Nevertheless a safe place to sleep At least For a little while
