I.

the day began as a mirage.

dressed in the garb of a wise king,

i dab frankincense on my wrists

and stumble into the desert searching for stories in the sand.

i find no surrealism in the sun. illusion

cannot be blamed on transitory light. it is my eyes

which censor the spectrum of time.

with a dangerous emptiness, the wind

bellows and encompasses the earth. sagging dunes

translate moments. they know time well.

II.

tonight the warehouse is drafty and dark.

we separate manna into brown boxes,

recycle miracles, and pack moon pies along with

fruit and sins of the Torah.

while sweeping up our mess, i wonder

if the wind celebrates itself

or if the sky and the oceans

honor it and how.

III.

'tell me i am like the sand. tell me

i am a ruptured star - the grit

of an ancient supernova,

crumbled

&

still

shimmering.

tell me when i settle

the wind will swipe me up and

scatter me

again.'

IV.

she said: I am a story. I am true

beyond the sun.