Like our bed, through
the half-opened door,
the Pyramids are seen,
from a distance, and
your hair on the
pillow, like twisted
sails, is the picture
I carry of Egypt.

Under the sun,
and the whip,
I learned many
secrets. Even love
was simple, a
motion of the oars
as old as water.

If I am born
again, perhaps I
will remember this
bed, like sheets of
desert wind, or
a photograph of
slaves, in which
nothing can be
touched, not
even memories.