Precarious gaze the
Egyptian harlot casts
just beyond the horizon
of her veil.

She squints through
the cloudy room
of opium smoke
and curses,

like reading a destiny
in the blood-red sunset.

She might speak,
but the sand dunes
have become her,

and her words are
but muted echoes,
all but lost in the wind.

I might have thought better,
than to troll my need
at this hour of day,

but alas
this thinking has done me
no good.

Somewhere deep within
her pyramid gathers
the wine-soaked men
who have fallen over her.

She receives them
with moist tenderness,
even in the throes
of her drought;

but no feeling
is stirred.