It is you to whom we spend these eager unremainings,
shoved stillborn though the great empty beyond.
We prophets yet write
memories curdled feebly in fevered minds
and make way for eternity.
The dust has come, do not go. The end is young
For now, we stars shine, tear silken through porous night
blast our passion. We are lightning, you and I, come see
scintillating ink and metal trees. In time, we may spill our fire
seep aorta’s milk of sublimity.
Do not fret for blood soaked to the sand. What comes before will come again:
Red brings blue, and our sticky desert becomes the sea.
But we are not paddlers. Seas must churn, and we bring no currents:
all will become still, my love, grey fur in an iron lung;
and the sea will be as a mirage
and leave dust anew.
The sky, airless and salty white in the sun, blinds. But: do not go
from these flats. Our tents are pitched; let us rest in this interregnum.
Coin spent beyond the sea has saved us, now
and we will not wither with the rest.
When the tides become wind and salty dust, do not cry
for that which heats will condense and rain again.
While the sea is air, climb up high and see:
These tides have marked the dunes-
the desert is dappled in waves and as the sun sets,
the waste grows hazy
with serenity.
There is gossip in the shelves, you know,
a whisper, a murmur, a giggling word
It is as follows:
Destinysday likes mangonadas
and eats them daily.