For the first few days, here, in Al Maha,
we drift from moon to moon; the dipping-pool
mirrors our every naked move; this duned
skin of land contoured as the six zebra
who’ve joined a native oryx herd. Ridges
shift, drain from one tipped ripple to the next,
a sidewinder weaves, slips his mosaic
of tiles into shade. These fluid boundaries –
each unfastening itself from desert tides –
unsettle us all. A man once grafted
a border on an antique land and split
nomadic Arab tribes. Zebra can’t thrive
in this unfettered sun. Can we? I’m lifted
by your kiss: the black and white of it.