Many years ago I found the following poem written somewhere, I think on the flyleaf of some book. I've tried to discover who Ralph Jerome Wright, jr. is, but no luck. I have transcribed it as I wrote it down. I don't know if this is how it appeared as written.
The train rolls on at
a slow-tune pace. Passengers
board, dyellabas and veils
bustle off. I’ve Tangier
residue in my mouth and a red
cloak to hide in. Nodding by
a cold window, the red desert
moon lifts slowly into flight,
an icy crescent arcing
counter to my own direction
with even speed. Desert
shrubbery, flat expanse–
silent companions sleep.
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