From where can we end
if we have stopped in the middle
of the road, gathering suns like a broken
language gathers breath? Through the city,
that jungle grove fullness, or outside
of an abandoned house, where air lingers
so still that all falls into a lattice.
Nearby, the sandstorm dissolves into itself —
scatters desert-snow onto a flooded field —
and everything finds a new way
to exist. All that is growing simplifies.
The fog dreams of starving the night.
By Sarah Street
