I (Love and Celluloid) His brown hands folded against the pommel of his camel's saddle; long tracks along the golden ridges; a veiled sky, and the long, dark eyes of a Sheik, Sharif, charade, and I, my mother's daughter, every foolish mother's daughter. II Watch: its desert pelt sprawled golden, reddening, and every foolish dream reeling (but this is fantasy, an overture that lasts too long). Reality should be sharp, a far ridge, not that filmy sky, that mask, mirage. I want to believe in that golden day, that sweep of Arabia, reckless and dying, but the frame is curling, the world is burning, not gallant, broken.