Sodom and Gomorrah

If I were a city, a Sodom or Gomorrah,
gates unused and unneeded, their wood
dried and splintered, sunburnt and warped
like sentries too long on duty,
their once-strong sinews stretched
by the carnival throng of well-wishers--

If I were Sodom, city of cinnamon and saffron odors
gliding along behind their silken masters,
bangle-spots of melon and wine-berry
squatting at the steps of carved doors,
sad and luxuriant notes twirling in the dust,
careless of the feelings they elicit--

If I were Gomorrah, the jewel on the shore
my eyes winking, chattering with the sparkles on the sea;
from my mouth, sauntering, swaying, laden camels come
moving in time with the ships, my suitors,
blown in by winds cold and warm, strong and subtle
in my harbor for the moment--

If I were a city, a Sodom or Gomorrah, what
if in me was a clean-swept courtyard with a child
quietly playing with the golden light,
or a curved, silent head in the shadows
praying wordlessly, with the groans of the heart--
humble oases, perhaps, only ten or so of these?

Perhaps, many hills away, a man grovels--
A man kneels pleading
after three receding figures, moving
with heavy and measured steps towards me
an unearthly glow from them interrupting
the chatter with the sea.