The day began as a mirage.
Dressed in the garb of a wise king,
I dab frankincense on my wrists
and stumble into the desert searching for stories
in the sand.
I find no surrealism in the sun.
Illusion
cannot be blamed on transitory light. It is my eyes
which censor the spectrum of time.
With a dangerous emptiness, the wind
bellows and encompasses the earth. sagging dunes
translate moments. they know time well.

Tonight the warehouse is drafty and dark.
We separate manna into brown boxes,
recycle miracles, and pack moon pies along with
fruits and sins of the Torah.
While sweeping up our mess, I wonder
if the wind celebrates itself
or if the sky and the oceans
honor it and how.

“Tell me I am like the sand. Tell me
I am a ruptured star – the grit
of an ancient supernova,
crumbled
&
still
shimmering.
Tell me when I settle
the wind will swipe me up and
scatter me
again.”
She said: I am a story. I am true
beyond the sun.