East East

at the end of the world
impenetrable as bwindi's forests
tasteless as dust
as cobwebs of pate
as lost as legends of kilwa
eaten by salty mists
on the indian coast
to bathe in tourquise
to feed on beryl
not mold-eaten limestone
to climb across the riddled boulders until
looking down on socotra's diminishing shores
by hands and knees reaching
the shadow of the dragon's blood 
and there beneath the cruel arab sun
plunge into the dark robe of that sandal-less sultana
have her over and over
upon a foundation of sweet sweet chrysolite
until even the stones are spent