The toe swells, rocked by the Kasbah,
by the gravity of things, and number four
is shot: grazed and bruised; while I am
distracted by Moroccan music and the
idea of someone loyal, so rare in my life.
I’m supposed to be regal, but my history, too
is grazed and bruised by the atrocities of
too-human failing. Like a fallen peach, I am
no longer brilliant, but dimming, blue, grey,
and green, too sweet, too soft, and too old.