so this is memory accounted full.
the one, the final word they wrote, to lay
a crying babe to sleep. a lullaby
to keep, against the fragmenting mirage —

a pile of rocks for angry men to stack,
to sit on. bone-built towers against
the synthesizing might of desert hours
break first before the mother of the fast.

and these divisive scratches were daughters
of dust, heart-scriven on the dune. to say
my thirst was never for parted or past —
her caravan, sand-winding, ever-last.

//