"The thing that has been,
Is that which will be
And that which is done
Is that which will be done
There is no new thing Under the sun--"
So speaks the son of David but
at midnight the moon rises on Rommel in Africa,
basking in the sandy cool, painting his camel’s nails blue.
The camel for his part is grateful--
a feeling acknowledged
in the act of turning its head to spit.
The dreamer wakes at four/wanders the house
sore back/ creaky ankles--condition
not greatly improved when he trips
on his copy of the Dead Sea Scrolls.
Back to bed
While over in Africa
Rommel’s camel investigates the turret
of a captured Model E.
The gunner mismeasures the weight of the moment,
unloads his arsenal---
Gentleman Rommel cleans the stickum
from his camel’s whiskers,
reaches up, adjusts its hat,
having always subscribed to the notion
that a man’s tale is told in
the demeanor of his camel.
And so the night hours pass on the pair
as they sit in subdued silence
meditating on the stickiness and meaning
to be found in a popped bubble.
(Image: Rene Magritte, The Age of Enlightenment)