- In Morocco
Around the corner, the edge of the desert dissolves into pebbles as it washes up against the antique troughs. The light ties itself into a sailor's knot at eye level and won't budge until evening, so everyone has to walk around it right into the center of the Sahara. There are rumors that the brusque scarves on the faces only unravel for death or sex. Everything else is an illusion that buzzes around us in its tiny cocoons. The spider across my wall gets caught in its own web and has to eat its way out. As its bites become slower and slower, the room turns on its axis for the landlord sun at both ends of the day. Light left over from the year before turns the sand green, into crystal glass, for minutes at a time but nothing ever breaks.
James Doyle’s most recent book is Einstein Considers a Sand Dune (Steel Toe Books). He has poems forthcoming in the Massachusetts Review, River Styx, and Green Mountains Review, among others.