Coldest in the Noontide Heat

glazed oasis, dusted with rotting dates—
a path unwound from the well of a storm
eyeing me to take

flight to the west—packing only fowl and
creeping herds in the pockets of notebooks
torn of all pages, but wailing digests
defying translation, with their raging
regurgitations of auspicious words—
a fountain of the sun that runs coldest
in the noontide heat spat on me from trees

exiled in a cough from the driest lives
lived by men thirsting to leave the dry east.
oh, my father a deity drawn down
daily—i, a sun portrayed poorly in
the earthwork pottery of a people
unworthy to behold me; a crash of
words sighing me to taste of its hanging

fruit—each cocoon a season downturned from
petrified roots—and fear aslant, whistling
choral bristles on each trunk—the tangles
of tempest, the tossed hair of sand parting,
proffered me the egress from museums
of fleshless nests which once cradled the seeds
and saplings of these things men eat before

napping. awoken, sandstorm parting, my
departments of drought have called a search for
rain, and i, a king long wanting of a
diadem, trying to haunt the dying
breath of this afternoon shrill, i cannot
shriek, cannot scream, cannot feel the drenching
demand of the clearing leering before

me with its opaque incision. two walls
of sand, real and remnant, each forbids my
exit, but this clearing, this path through the
torment—its borders a trail of littered
rose petals—pink not from bloom, but scorched by
the tongue of noon sampling the earth, having
left shed flesh as vibrant as this to lead

me from my frozen doom, thawed—i am a
tear encased in a man; i have devoured

my steed, in need of disguise to colour
my beard; a bedouin undone, i am
a sage engulfed in the rage of raven
wool hanging from my chin, and blacker robes
swirling my corpse, from chin to sole—a plume

of tattered weave consoling the grief of
a brow pregnant pauses, gusts, and gales mowed
down. cloaked, i embark, no glance behind me,
but i hear the withered produce playing
a chortle of chance in the dissonant
recess of my decaying ear—where next
will i tarry? what storm have i to fear?

ev’ry drop of light
that hits stone, imprints upon crumbling thrones,
monumental memories of crowns thrown.