Crawling in the desert
There is dust
Growing my mouth
I have scrambled in-between parallel lines
Cracked my head on a hidden hypoteneuse
Which hurts.
My palate turns dust-gray.
To set my limbs:
That is the meaning of this dust,
So finely pressed to skin
As to appear one with it;
But it is an outside violence.
Reason has passed
Through the Gut .
And trapped by intestinal wisdom,
Dust is outstripped.
I fear nothing else.
