sabaH al-khair
with the tapped telephone - Hart and I
are suspected of being at one
with those with the Devil hair
instead intense eavesdroppers
you are mistaken, we are with arms stretched
surrendering to the morning sun
basking in the glory of the bleached
sands, where we find no day-trippers
only the peace of the shore, its girdle
of seaweed and pearls of detritus
the frigate bird with red goitre
and the snowy white terns
the robber crabs clipping like barbers
in the Bronx or downtown Tahiti
the palm trees leaning drunk
like sailors who Hart knew, and the
ones who I spot in Denmark,
Europe, the fish flipping in the ripple
of the sunlit water, the coconut
abandoned like a large tennis ball
that last saw Wimbledon in 1924
SabaH al-khair
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