W. Luther Jett

To the Red House

Beyond the city there is nothing
anymore—a dark road
through the hot night
will carry you past jackals' dens,
over the dry wa'adis to the red house,
where the lights glow
and the music moans as bodies
sway—intoxicated dancers—
overpowered by musk, by the drums,
and between the city and this
there is no difference—nothing—
there—it is all—
the same dance, same lights,
same night you pray will not end,
under stars you pray will not fall,
and that pale ribbon rising
in the east—forget it—perhaps
it's only the moon—or another
city leading to another red house