Sleep

When I move nowadays
I leave my bags packed.
They're a mess inside
and the clothes I wore yesterday
are still wrapped in a Globus Market bag
that says Please Recycle.

What if Richard III had shrieked
'My kingdom for a fag
One lousy cig for this debacle!'
Would we moan or would we giggle?

I think this watching my bag
resting on a bed in a foreign place.
The zipper is frayed: a wheel is
squint
like me. I will wash my face
with foreign water and swirl
Into the deep semitic mass
on streets below--
looking for the local fare,
fried and cheap--the wiry brow
of a vendor hiding the stress
Of dishing up shwarma, chips
And a pack of almonds for later.

I think of you, not of you.
but of the scent of your thighs
trembling to be freed and eyes
burning behind black linen.
Among all this dark mass.
I would find you again.
and sleep you into the past. .

.