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
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.
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