The White Hotel

6.26.06

In the white hotel

with low ceilings and hushed guests

white sheets lie crumpled

in the morning light.

Wooden shutters admit

a certain sun, muted by clouds

over a desert day.

A hip rises on

a dormant silhouette,

slopes down to carved waist.

White breast against

tanned arm

welcomes morning air.

A sculpted knee rests

in triangulation.

Coffee colored hair spills

onto pillows

as a shoulder rises in slow breath.

And the dreamer

walks the bright lit streets of Tunis,

the hennaed cobblestones of Marrakech,

the white sands of Guadeloupe,

searching for the perfect shell

into which her thoughts

can be poured.