………………….

the sound of spitting camels at my back

I start to walk (to trudge, to clamber)

sinking with each step;

it is not simply my feet

searching for substance,

but as my toes are sifting sand

all I find is shifting land

Bottomless

this sandbox was poured

(is poured, will be poured)

here and now and then and always

Bottomless:

they call it,

as their fathers called it

and their fathers’ fathers called it

wandering;

before,

when they marked this spot

with a stone

worn to sand

which once was stone

marking this spot worn to sand

by the wind-driven rain,

meaning sand,

that blew through this spot marked with sand

in this mountainous desert

of time,

meaning sand

here, I am
Jonah drowning

But a kitchen sink to you,
is not a kitchen sink to me

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