Accidie

The light, robust buildings

stand by sand. New. Empty.

Grey roots of banyan-looking trees

twist their naked loops in and out

the colorless ground, as worn as a marble stair.

Thick air, even land, and the sense of cage

or of embankment make this like a European

zoo, a monkey island where the terrain

is memorized by use. It could be

southern Europe. Lizards on the sill

flick their dry tongues.

We can hear the enamelled rustle

of shiny, clicking palm fronds overhead.

Darkly leaded panes bell to the dust

like a Gaudi aquarium, with amphibian plumb.

A puzzle to the blond, trod earth.

Dull bluish tracks lie in shallow beds

and cross uncontrollably at the horizon.

Here is the switchyard where the day

has paused at noon.

Everyone

is cordial and dresses in twill, moiré,

or faille, blue-black or cream. Some dance.

English is spoken. We become thirsty

and perhaps our last meal

was hurried, meager, mutable.

Some collars are open. My step is feat.

Verbs fly away from my query,

one I am compelled to put

in their alien tongue: the trains

point always in a prevailing line

so I let several go.

We wait on the siding, gloved,

a rolled sleeve or two, and watch

the burial. State occasions

are informal here. Bright shovels ring