Among the Dunes

Heiroglyphics that never made it to the stone.

Cataloguing these wounds to the air
Like a dying man among the dunes
Cursing the open sky.

Like a prayer to who's not there
Arrow to the sun in all its noon
Unaware it was let fly.

Hide me for awhile, in the barley;
An hour away from the cement graves.
We'll talk lowly of some distant darlings
And of the murder in goodbye waves.

And when it's gone, a gray return
By bus into the blackened yoke
To pass these days until we die.

And slow and long, we'll watch it burn
And trace the dancing flight of smoke
From sepia hello, to the hard goodbye.