Empty Quarter #45

Waveless, though woven

Through—the wind-

Shift indiscernible;

Sticks in idling gears,

Fans out into rivulets,

Wears away

Mechanism after mechanism.

We weren’t geared for this.

With dirt, there is cleanliness

In the volume.

As sand goes, there is a scouring

In the grain—a big fuck you--and the trail

For that just disappears.