I borrow De Quincey's Confessions
of an Opium Eater, the aforementioned
an account of that singular
Oriental vice,
whereupon misplacing the volume
in transit
from the checkpoint, I attempt
to capsulize
the book's misadventures only to
suffer taciturnity
on the part of the staff until,
the duplicity
of a continued numbers game in
Chinese wearing
thin and with lassitude similar to
the opium habit,
the Chief Librarian, a girl herself
of Eastern domesticity
greets my queries with hushed tones
and solemnity akin to
a leering Siamese or bedridden
Cheshire cat.

[7]

If the rich are different
they show it with the
clarity of their table
as Fitzgerald decried,
the breathless hush
of their garden regalias,
the manner in which wedgewood
crystal are cleaned to a
polished exactness--
the shimmer of expensive china
no less repetitive than
the hulking boys
waiting in window stops,
monsoon rain pelting
the upper Punjab plains.

[8]

Sleep is a striking woman
accosted by various men
while in a dance;
the warring desires thus
present themselves as on
a battlefield--
hunger comes arrayed with
red plumes to befit
his appetites,
sensuality somewhat
decked out as a dandy
in a mauve waistcoat
and, of course, there is
Fear, the most thwarted
of the suitors, bejewelled with a
flashing sabre, rattling it from
the tail of his skinny stick horse,
the pale charger riding
to intercept the beautiful courtesan
Sleep
bestowing her favours illicitly
wherein she would but choose.

[9]

Chess pieces resting upon the jade
mantle piece
see sampans move quietly
thru warm night,
rich bundles of bougainvillea
crowd market squares
where deck chairs extend
to the Persian Gulf.

Leisured