Skimming brown puddles wreathed with chilly mist,
   I grope over ranges and stages and seem to rest
        in a city, a bed, a body.
        A piece of arm, a sunlit
   slice of sycamore,
brightly reflected, dance
   between a pair of mirrors.
        Yellow wall and shadowed dark of arch,
        blue sky and pigeons and Sephardic chants:
   looking out the window I remember
            why every sunny morning means Morocco.

The first month here is over.
    As too transplanted flowers finally root,
        so things have found their places.
        The earth has turned a little, trees
    deepened to aquamarine.
I've seen it. Let me leave
...