El Foolk (The Ark) by Marguerite McBey

In the last desert before the last blue rocks
The desert in the garden the garden in the desert
Of drouth, spitting from the mouth the withered apple-seed.

     O my people.

Sharing a bare wagon-lit with four strangers
Who unwrapped fragrant lamb and spicy hummus
     while we chewed our day-old bread
Who as darkness descended before Seville
      knelt to pray beginning, Allahu Akbar

Resuming a long conversation.