Eating at the heart of it all
is the wind pushing me to the door,
and out of the whole.
In the desert sun, I can sweat into myself,
pull the air into myself, without feeling wrong.
The rocks carved out of rocks to sign
to everyone around them
that they were larger, and meaner,
and everything more, once;
heady, but only heady.
But I’ve been carved by water and dust,
and let the former shape the other,
and felled some thoughts with rust.
The desert still calls me.