Caravan, the weatherman has called you
off with prognostications of carafes
full of sand, or snow, or flagrant haiku
of powdery lights, of true love's last laughs:
Caravan, your route turns up unwritten
as the windy wind wends its borrador,
wiping golden-white the Moorish mitten
with no palms in hand, no pools on the floor:
She vanished behind a curtain of doubt,
went poof like a puddle under the sun
whose electric rays outshined her pale pout
until you came alive, oh, my bright son!:
Turn back toward home! Gaze upon your serfs!
Break bottles on boats on your windy wharfs!