my house breaths with the stink of gin

and the trees slump under the weight of ineptitude

and a lonesome cardboard box that once contained food

now sulks around the yard with the lone stray dog,

her teats rescinding after her young have migrated to new apartments and city parks

while elsewhere...

the cobwebs strung across my window have been abandoned

and my curtains of makeshift tablecloths towards the sun behind the glass

and the sound

of a cigarette being extinguished is the only sound

in the house, short of the short breath that cycles though my lungs

as i tread beneath the shifting sands
the seething flesh of the desert dries my throat
i hear the bustle of nomads, the children of cracked red mountains,
the mothers and fathers of yesterday, the family of amnesia

and shafts of light illuminate weightless beams of sand
lingering as if in the waiting room of life
the rains are late but the sands will wait for a drink, for a taste,
for the singular moment
among countless desolate days where the indifferent sun takes
but elsewhere gives, gives, gives

in between those parched nights that drag across our lives
we find moments to quench those desolate days
when the waters come down
and we almost drown as all of life
comes rushing down our throats
and in our eyes and ears a single moment that overwhelms eternity