‘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
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.