they are selling salt and gold. do we care, my darling?
mined from the mountain of the soul, beneath the fingernails of children.
beneath the gaze of waged men, beneath the hourglass of women,
the stalls are laid with mason jars and scales and ingots in glass cabinets.
hark! the voices of the barkers trading off the market walls.
see the balance act, the cabaret, the purse string draws, the longing.
we crawled beneath a trestle laid with sheets of oiled hemp
and, at the rough feet of the merchant,
spent the hour sleeping
beneath the desert breeze, the shuffled feet, the barked lament,
our own free lullaby.