A city of dust and dusty ghosts

too tired to haunt their day jobs.

I would soar if I were me.

A city of one-eyed cats

and no-eyed humans;

of buildings born

old. Where is that promised

edge where I begin? A city

of gardens dying with bloom

on their lips – forsaken

by children forsaken. I feel

an urge to climb up

up to the roots.

A city that motheringly cat-licked

my Sabavesafta with desert

sand paper until their skin

color crawled under their pride.

Of streets paved with dust,

with dreams jettisoned

by wives whose only sin

was the serpent to ignore;

wives who will forever

scrupulously sweep

old dust, so new dust

may find a clean floor.

Just another bloodred sunset

smeared through the thick

throttling air, eager to rise

from the dust in my veins.