so much sand fills in the corners,
blown in overnight by the unrelenting winds
flapping through the door and stirring dreams
of endless desert flanked by far away oases
never quite in reach of a days' ride,
the camels in their impatient line jingling in harness,
grunting and groaning for the pure joy
of hearing themselves talk—and now the sun has risen,
the sand sparkling like gems heaped up by some mogul
for his sweetheart—and why, my old friend Poet,
are women never sweethearts in men's minds
after they've capitulated, only while the hunt is on?
idolatry's an answer; fallen like gods we know too well,
the soft thud of their fall absorbed by the sand
as it soaks up all the spilled red ink
of another misused life and disappears the evidence
much faster than mere water ever could; but look,
the water's turned the sand to mud, the gleaming corners swept clean by one laughing tumbled wave.
the camels kneel after they drink, ignoring the stars as they prick out the blue black night and sink into another dream