11.20.2006

An Improv on sand.

Suddenly wide awake as the wind blows in, sand dusting the hollows of my ears. How deep do these caverns go? I can shut out the choking cyclones only for a moment with a finger. The curve of the ear, the delicate desire of the tempting lobe. Nothing: gone. Now my own, invaded by sand, itching in a way I don't like. Will this storm bury us all tonight? A whole party made smooth by minute rubbings during the night? Nothing--not a half-sunk visage, nor remnants of a colossal wreck. We would be silenced in a great sand. Ears, mouths, full, bulked with sand. Voided out entirely, into a greater mass.
What was the point of this journey? Seeking tombs only to find my own? In the gaps of the rock, sticking a probing finger. No point of lighting a lamp now. Used to the dark, can write at night, finding the lines with a fool's instinct. I can even decipher these pitiful scuffles in the morning. At dusk I am happiest, the white tents glowing from their interior lights, blurring their edges in the sand. I think about the warmth of my hearth in my faraway home. Much of it is lost to distracted memory--I can't quite remember all the details. Where does the hall meet the dining room? Is my bedroom door on the left or right? As I try to recall the floorplan of my old home, I forget my worries with my favourite evening hobby:
I write in the dark: the lights on my street are probably flickering on right this instant.

By morning, the wind has left us. My tent has acquired an odd lean: sand lies heavy on one side. I push off the odd weight from the inside of my tent wall like a light corpse.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

An inrush of water and these sandy words are forever lost.

(Try to forget that they were ever there.)

(Try to imagine what they were like.)

These are the first moistened steps of desire.