The desert doesn’t pretend to care
That its sand scours your eyes.
If the wind makes those swirling grains look like
Sweeping off the Earth to meet its parents in the absent clouds,
It’s only through coincidence.
Under the sun it behaves unusually,
With no goal,
And no regard to your assumptions of its character.
The dunes are neither distinct,
To resist affable zephyrs
And sizzling currents;
There’s no treasure to hide beneath them.
The dunes get bored and sigh with the breeze,
When they’ve seen enough
Of this ray of light
Or that shrub,
And abandon their interim homelands.
There’s nothing left to see;
The shadows admit their sterility with me,
And just like that I’m their friend,
And by that they’re flattered,
And by that they’re not interested.
There’s nothing left to do;
This place can only coax so much
Out of heat, sky, and sand.
My words try to paint an inkling of truth here,
Yet the desert is still more sincere