Secret Agent Artist

As with Aberystwith,
we find it quite insistent
in our spaces of
remembering:

The small stone house
with it’s hard to light engine,
cold pine floor,
but warm kitchen -

is the same -

as the carpet covered lift,
seventh floor balcony, huge room
with the white sheets, tea
we got from room service.

We have vivid memories -

of cycling down hill,
rain hammering -
plastic rivers over overalls
collecting in the collars of our hoods.

We have vivid memories -

of Hatshepsuit - the female ruler with the
stone beard. The wedding cake of
wide stairs, Egyptian children
running down them with their -

arms spread full tilt.

At 5 in the morning,
listening to the - sigh of traffic -
waiting for the - sky to lighten
meaning work -

I can’t not think -

of the wind trapped hill, walk along the Nile,
man who asked for money
’cause he knew us from the
hotel.

I can’t not think

of the place we bought the calibir
the freezing cold November pier
the crammed souks,
and the dark mud -

the coat I lost -

somewhere vague
between the valley
and the deep,
of the burnt desert.