Marrakech welcomed us,
a warm hold,
lifting flight-numbed senses.
Bella and I ventured, briefly,
her unexpected beauty strummed
local boys’ heart strings,
and I was alongside, nonchalant-ish,
landed, an hour before, into this.

We expected the slap of heat,
but not such
deep hospitality abroad:
Our host, with his command of English,
beyond our first-grade French,
provided our alien-ness a place,
in le Perroquet
Blue’s cool blocks of peace.

I wish to return
to that riad,
dip my toes in the tiled pool,
and sit, rooftop, alongside
targeted satellite dishes,
hear the prayer songs of Marrakech,
to see the sky there run high
over impossible nests of storks,
And to feel that city’s dirt
in my pores.

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