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


this sandbox was poured

(is poured, will be poured)

here and now and then and always


they call it,

as their fathers called it

and their fathers’ fathers called it



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