I.
Camels clomp through black
sands. The rider’s amulet
dangling notes
in the sun. Hot drums
juggle empty black
weight from long
twines reaming
at shriveled
muscles,
hinds,
many feet
below sea.
The soft mush
of the clip
clop
whispering
thirst.
Sun whips her
bright mustard
tail—rattles
pangs of light
like sauerkraut:
transparent skin
shedding off
the horizon.
Hisses in hot
clear waves:::
II.
Back in cities, fried
screens crash down
on the frozen black
drives of primetime.
Fax machines hum
our ink is no good
from slip-
wax tongues
of parchment. Nothing
to pawn now for a sip
of blue. In the city
and desert garlic
bulbs keep the circuits
charged : a heart will
wire into cloves for days
in the face of collapse.
III.
The warm dunes
grow and crescendo
in bolero before the dead
silence. Stars catch a cactus
in sharp glisten. In the sand men
torture the giver for water. Their white
camouflage gives away all green, unarmed
against darkness, and the sliced arms
pour their hot offering—the cap
of barbs tilting in the red
night: a sharp flower
dropping like a drill.
With throats
wet, two men
begin to sing
into the dry radio—
hello ruby in the dust.