James Midkiff Poet I do not know?

The Seshat Headdress

The Nile riverfront is awash with rich tones
golden sand, brilliant white water, and thriving greenery
scenery too heavy for the papyrus its printed on
the sky is ablaze with the reddish orange of iron rust
dirty yellows cascade about the passion charred city-scape of Cairo
hazy with smog and smothered by a blanket of hot stale air
the sun setting casts shadows about the streets like ghost riders
four mounted omens of doom and decadence
and the darkness takes root in the river's delta
mixing and churning the sediment to clay
to be molded and sculpted by sharp falcon hands
with prodding finger-tips like talons
into a simple ankh of immortality
baked black and sharp by the elements
into igneous obsidian
amidst the fields of the Garden of Cafour
sand glass shards are encrusted into strands of hemp
tethered to the limp, free-hanging symbol of eternity
ominous jagged coal and glossed emerald crystal
lush thick lazy opal plumes cascade across the country-side
where fakirs breathe In the pearl and budding life
burnt and coiled down the long necked pipes
of blind prophets, glazing over the iris
loosening the shackles of the soul
and guiding the dye-dipped camel hair
of drugged out poets of the past
into cunning mastery of craft
ash spirits are exhaled into the crisp dark of night
where indigo and violet hues stain the horizon bold
battering and bruising the heavens
peppered with shooting stars
a stellar tapestry

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