The Close of the Bazaar

 

In this circus of the mind,

you are the dreamraker, the

seller by the booth of riches.

You are the daylight’s yellows

and the blue stratum of sleep.

We knew each other in the

shadowless angle of noon,

bartered minutes, collected

seaside the shells of

poetry. You opened the door of

tents. The edges of the sand’s

various galleries collapsed

into rivers, opened into books.

You are the sheik of araby, the

dream-maker, the purples

mornings brush in the eyes

of wise men.

Dreams surrounded the day’s

median. Time was, red was the

color of afternoons pressed

against us. Now the tents

move nearer the water than

you. The past is covered

canvas, the future is the wet

unbroken fabric of beach.

The bazaar closes, tents fold,

pictures painted on the moon’s

memory move on. You and I

walk to the uncut littoral,

carve footprints in the cool

green silence, the first morning

of the world.

Caroline Shank 

8393*