it is the only thing we have
in common

this wind 

this nephew
this son
this mother this father

these candles we light
this wind that blows them all out 


this water won’t come won’t come
this desert

this wind
brings clouds
and takes them away

grass blowing like hair

sand lifting
a body without edges
such tender erosion

before us a tower with stairs
an aspiration to be higher
names engraved in
rock eroding

sun pushing us under
desert oaks 

those great mothers
one limb broken

a fringe of her hair
hanging over earth

sweeping it


it takes them
this wind

they want waves
deep blue
white froth
salt to sting
and liven their eyes

they are under this sky still
painted in their own colours
high on that horizon
all those dunes between us

they might be calling to us
voices lost

but all we see
is hair blowing

thrashing their faces
thrashing all our faces

View this poem on The Disappearing »