Tophet

The air with its heavy fog of dirt

Trees with billowing trash-bag blossoms

They make me sleep, and sleep

No hurry to awake.

Silence, and then more of it.

I wander aimlessly on streets that turn back on themselves

Names like Alameda, and Amador

The As have it, I think. The better to pair with rolling Rs.

The dry river runs in its memories, while the bed cracks

A man fishes from a burning lake, his pole broken and mislaid

Black things twisting beneath the surface, hoping to be caught.

They are the only things with hope.

 

Always the wind, forcing you to eat the sand

Here I am, and you are nothing.

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