Bedouins in a Long Marriage

The shadow of the sphinx falls into my cup.
Our old camel sinks to its knees in the sand.

Holding this cup requires both hands,
Raising the tent takes longer.

The stars are cold enough to burn.
The moon-mountains send no invitation.

After many mistakes, the pattern
Simplified, the rug nearly finished.

Praying for death, we pray to begin.
How lucky, to be expert at nothing.

copyright 2006 Jeanne Lohmann
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