Tour busses labor uphill disgorging fumes
Into the throat of the market.
Bicycles glint in the sun. Vendors screech
Over their stalls of T-shirts, red velvet pillows
Shelves of lace tablecloths, cloisonne vases, fur hats,
And cotton bags with prints of the Wall in blue.
Bedspreads flap in the wind like big flags
Over the terra cotta army models.
Flies buzz on the peaches. The ticket man spits.
The camel handler reins his mangy camel
Close to the lean photographer, who smiles
Or whistles mildly, batting at bugs.
The visitors crowd to the ticket taker,
Squeeze through the gate, get past the toilet building,
And clamber up the steep rise to walk on the Wall.
The slope is hard.
Hundreds of climbers, pulling themselves by handrails,
Slowly pant to the towers.
A honeymoon couple flinches out of the path
Of middle school boys who charge down the center shrieking.
The groom's uncomfortable in his new black suit,
Its label still on the cuff.
The bride blinks once, totters on three inch heels,
And falls in flounces of lace and yellow taffeta.
There are crowds in trousers, slacks,
Mao suits, sweaters and skirts, saris, shorts,
And some wear all the rags they have
To beg from holiday tourists,
Who shove them away while they munch on figs and peaches
And push off postcard sellers,
Or smile and pose for photographs
Or stare for a moment, puzzled
By Shirley Temple and George Washington
Depicted side by side on a tower wall.
A few, who muse as they lean on the stone,
Gaze with unspeakable yearning
Into the hills
Past the seried crenellations.
Into the hills,
And the Wall folds over the earth
And winds out of sight,
To an end somewhere
Hundreds of miles away
In an uninhabited region
In silence
And broken
In the anguish and the mercy of time.