They’ve buried themselves alive
in the desert. Scales, like hushed hands,
scrape at the sand that separates them.
Two thousand miles east, a bask of spirits
searches for bodies in the reeds of the Nile.
And here, between buildings,
along tributaries of tarmac, lost
to thoughts of green underfoot, I flow,
skin brushing stone but feeling grass—
this creature’s dream of water.
Somewhere east of this place, printless feet
are walking hills in search of me.