On a naked hill
Above a shamble of bone built huts,
She plays at chores
in a well-lit palace,
open to the dim world.
she moves about in there
rearranging her dark-polished furnishings
in patterns of arabesque logic.
Everyone below watches, looking up from
mud scrabbled ruts
into the bright vision of order.
“Oooh, coffee table tea party
on the veranda, my dear.
Now that’s the way to live!”