… forever lost.

By J. K. McDowell

August 2018

 

A noisy bar, nowhere special, just Tangiers.

In the far booth is Paul Bowles, the expat novelist.

You’ve recently arrived from Paris, never lost.

 

We really do not know how to count down the days.

Endless, forever, rise, set, none are for us.

Eternity to cross infinity – I’m still lost.

 

I trace the moonlight across the desires of touching

Your naked skin.  I am awake, but this is your dream.

The Moon interrupts and asks, “Are you lost?”

 

Are you lost?  An important and curious question.

Is there poetry here?  Another query?

Can we please go back to when the answers were lost?

 

The pause is essential, then the venomous strike.

Bowles sits in the corner, arabesque tile suites the room.

The hand is near the mouth, the chance is not lost.

 

The desert – a baptism of solitude yet

No sheltering sky, only the Beloved’s Eyes

And in that vision, I am holy, forever lost.

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