Page 23 - Poems

sumptuous dining car aboard a train speeding from Oujda to Bouar-
fa, all wooden panels and Art Deco lamps and elegance. Bond in Tom
Ford ivory dinner jacket, black-diamond-pointed bow tie and red
carnation-lined lapel that clamours the blood of another ace assassin.
Dr. Swann, herein unscarred by the guilt of survival and ghastly
parenting, wielding a mean handgun and a meaner sea-foam evening
gown (blue can stay the warmest, but green is now the colour of
cool). A caldera close to Erfoud, jagged lips intent on engorging all
the blue of Morocco’s heavens. Ushers rising in dark constellation
as the end credits roll, voices firm and low with febrile control…

For her own security
must the moon stay (in-
definitely) underground.

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