Day 40 of 50 Poems/50 Days

‘The Empty Quarter’

The clouds comb the sky,
dragging the wind behind them,
forward to the horizon.

The desert lies flat,
like the palm of my hand,
and I think about the lost things
buried underneath.

I imagine together,
in one group,
you’d find the bones of a prophet,
next to the bones of an elephant.

I imagine that even though dead,
these things will last forever,
past my own life,
underneath these sands.

I would dig them up,
as if to put them back together,
as if to find what I had forgotten,
but alas, their shape is neither.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s