Day 40 of 50 Poems/50 Days

‘The Empty Quarter’

The clouds comb the sky,
searching,
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.

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