The sun's gone down beneath the sand Where direction spends the night. If logic suffers in the sun, It evaporates with the moonlight. I walk by a dog lying in the pale Sand on its side in a shallow Pit of sand, motionless. Perhaps It breathes, perhaps it dreams.
I cast my moon- Shadow and move on, Through the maze of gray Powdered earth stretching home.
Where are the firmer roads Of my former place Where I once found reference In familiar space?
The familiar lingers here in the small, The superfluous; in flashlights, The incongruous; in T.V and Internal combustion shrapnel That tears through comprehensible simplicity.
Past, present, future: these are tired words. There are ten words for sand And one for beauty. There are Ten words for sand, one for beauty And I don't know which to use For what now bogs me down.
John O.