Desert drops

There is something above, some beastly clouds,
their threading voices name our eyes,
our words are spread
in thunders,
aware.

But under our feet the soil is sucking our
joys, devoured by time, rising
like the scent of the dead,
howling and crying
our names,
deaf.

We drop from the rain, our hands,
once mud, are feasting
with worms and
flesh, and we
breath in
the dust.

But now the rain, the mud, the time, our thoughts
are buried in veins of Soiled wise words;
we are but ephimeral phrases
pronounced by the sea.

we are but deserts that shout and echoe into Soiled eyes.