Two things

and later, when the worst has healed and you find
yourself back on the desert trail, you will know two

things instantly: 1. the shifting, sinking, whispering
sand will outlive you, absorb you and 2. with the

sky too wide and the stars too many and the land
too vast, in the sand that holds and drowns and

forgives, you will fall to your knees and no matter how
small you felt that one night, drinking spurious rum

from bootlegged bottles when everything was locked
down and no one came or cared or could, no matter

how little was left of you the next morning, you will
know you are less. And then you will rise and smile,

sadly, because a virus, even smaller, with no hands or
heart, had for a while, taken down an entire planet.

I am.

I am just consequence,
the ashes of a hundred births
heavy in my pack,
a silhouette made of mist,
fog braided into unpatterned thought,
I turn to see if I leave footprints
like the morning dew,
I hold out my hand to see
if it catches the soundless rain,
again the shadows fill with colour,
I know them, these shapes, these textures, your face,
I build my universe one more time,
the umbilical cord still tied to the emptiness,
there is nothing here
but reflections without mirrors,
nothing here but the outline of my desires,
I must leave now,
leave before the sunshine,
leave before the first shudder of wind,
leave and never return,
but what of your voice,
your voice made of smoke
from burning sandal sticks,
you voice that beckons softly,
your voice that is the moon melt
in my ear,
your voice that is both moth
and guilty flame,
your voice that keeps on
calling my name,
I am. Just consequence.

The Paradox of Impossibility

some dots should not be connected,
some lines never drawn,
where wanting is consequence preceding cause,
where folly is tomorrow’s aversion to turn, to pause,
where one cry meets another, not in silence,
but in the birthing throes of a scream,
where one fire meets another, not in the dark,
but in the conflagration of a dream;
some lines should not be connected,
some boxes never drawn,
where truth is the preoccupation of failure,
where love is the extravagance of loss,
where words leave secrets, not in perfidy ,
but with the indifference of impiety,
where faith leaves hearts, not in discord,
but in the paradox of impossibility;
some boxes should not be connected,
some patterns never drawn,
some dots should not be connected,
some lines never drawn.

Who is Counting?

Where action inclines sharply towards consequence, where cause metamorphoses gently into effect, where the past plunges headlong into an everlasting present, where destiny stands with one leg digging into the unmoving earth, the other dipping into an effervescent champagne cloud, where for an instant we stop each time, eyes searching the old forked road before your feet no longer hear the sound of mine…

How often have we passed through time’s revolving door, how often have those roads led back to this endless moment, this boundless place, this unsaid word, this unpromised feeling, how often does it seem that everything has happened and will just happen again, how often do we have to leave before we learn to say goodbye?

And yet, today, my steps falter, my eyes fade, my shadow turns repeatedly to check if you are following.

who is counting
between horizon and shore
the waves that came and left


For Dverse Poets where the prompt is “farewell”