There's sand falling from the sky

coppered bronze burnished in silt and grains 

containing secrets of a magicked East

that became known around these parts as an overspill from the brick yard,

but this dust is Saharan

crustacae from planes

Dead lost places with no witness.

 

The heat of the sun bears down its mirage

and admires its own reflection over vast skeletal lanscapes,

overwhelming in the beauty of narcissistic bones

born down

brittle

with dessicated  stickleback cracks over its rib

and slick swathes of that which man forgets

in its mirror.

Side and rear.

 

I wipe the washers and flick

the truth from Indian ceremony

out the way so i can see,

but in this bog standard rain

I might crash in the reddish gravel

and more obviously bleed my complaints to the road.

Tarmac.

A hand made blanket

of rigid control and vacuous spaces.

the safety of the sun can cake

its mud in places

where no body cares.

 

if a tree falls in an unmarked forest?

if a man is is killed in the bright day of nowhere?

if not one person can acknowledge the saraha in our sky

then what are all of your stories for

and why?