XIII

My heart is an hourglass and the sand it contains

was sifted from an ancient desert where everything was true.

City as desert: extreme moral temperatures and our beetle lives.

And yet clouds here lie to me, even history evaporates.

You'd think all sand is equal but a discrepant powder

flows in my systems and my tongue becomes anaemic, limp.

In the geology of literature dunes are not sand-waves

rather they're sound-waves and I journey by their music.