(a trifle)

The wind is hot and full of sand
And it has burned and scoured away
All that I was or could have been or am.
I am green midnight, asking you for dawn;
My flesh is rippling like water, in bright squares,
And moves together like a flock of birds
To find a softer star. A thousand dunes
Whose mind is refugee from where they were
Make pockets for a thousand silver lakes
Which are the dimples of my thoughts.
I stand in front, Lord, of your gates.
Your words are ruby, jacinth; as if pressed
From Vulcan’s bellows, and I feel
No other law but this bright sound.
I crawl into the pattern of its heat.