Parched Rapids

Prophets call across burnt dunes
your name spells rusted carnival tunes
The sand hides hives of nested wombs
where fossils used to gallop
Watchers of the morning sift
Shifting ripples eye the world
where silence is knowledge
and creation is consumed in infinite truth
What sound would I make here
Would we be us when there is nothing left?
When minerals dry and turn to dust
the grains will form new ancient artworks
and the wind will roll up and down the dawn
Choirs of drifting trials — denials of the great
that drew the gravel into his veins
He’s the far away hills that swim into manes of silt
Strap your thoughts to this engine
that rears itself skyward
as the nimbus numbs itself to desire
Can we live with this sadness
that only rots inwards
Old rope that rows against the current
Twisted with the years