On phosphorescent greens my sons play golf.

Fat Russians float in scattered swimming pools,

their sleek wives moored at nearby parasols

(it’s cheaper here than Europe, or the Gulf).

Tonight – ‘authentic Bedouin cuisine’,

as cloned in each hotel along the coast;

for now, nothing to do but lie sunkissed

or snorkel in the teeming turquoise zone.


Why did I bring your book?  It seems absurd

to lodge in such a place with such a quiet

lone mind –

                  so finely tuned you overheard,

in slowly weathered haunts, their sober riot

of deep emotions; the rooted, English words

which fail me in the horrors of the Hyatt.

Published in HappenStance Envoy, 2013