My hands grumble with bread,
and I wonder if all children
disappearing between
the yellow lines of morning
go to the same place.
When it’s dark, feet bare as my own,
move towards a heaven
where water slips through my fingers
and love empties out of me
into wrinkled dunes of desert.
My tongue is dust. I answer
questions with it, so all can see
what it is made of.

Something invisible falls to the floor
to remind me of a way back. My legacy
weathers into fingerprints of sand,
and eyes burn a hole in the dark
that leads to the next dawn.
I hasten from a life of quick endings
learning to cultivate
what others leave behind.
My hands hold wind nightly,
like a prayer, expecting
no miracle or god to appear,

only the breath
I will be allowed to keep.