Bleary by noon, the whitewashed
storefronts soak in the summer light,
in smoke from the charcoal braziers
and dust off the avenue running
red in the sun-and barely moving,
the awning’s shadow inches across
the sidewalk, as if leading a lover
away. The watery air far outstreams
the mushroom fountain suspiring
in the square. And all afternoon dust
motes drift in pale slats across
the polished tiles, until, at last,
the evening arrives, quiet and apart,
and momentarily in the mind
as a time in winter you only half
recall: the light now trembling,
as if from emotion, and the heat-mist
settling, almost like snow, onto
the empty courtyard, the ornamental
trees, the leafless flamboyants.
View from the Hotel Lobby
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