The windows clouded.
The air, tropical in this room
with mat made of shredded coconut.
The light held in a dome: our own desert island.
Day became evening. Our talk made mists on the windows
and the trees were voluble in their dripping.
The heaters breathed hot breath into the glass
and a hill continued running on its downward slope,
found a sharp bend and rolled into a village
of antique petrol pumps with oval heads and white on black digits.
The Inn attracts, guides us like a compass to where you've arranged to meet your friends.
No, I did not want to go in and say hello to the yellow lamps in the window.