April 17, 2014


The wind arrives
late at night,
blowing sand 
across the highway
of my dreams,
like snow drifting 
in my headlights,
beckoning even
the most hesitant
to follow.

Some say 
it's a warning
we will never quench 
our enormous thirst,
will keep driving
into the heart 
of the desert,
forever searching,
our parched lips 
mouthing now  
only a hollow,
meaningless sound.

We drive for hours
into nowhere,
seeing billboards 
for newly built homes,
available somewhere
in the mirage
ahead, disappearing
as we draw near.
White lizards scramble
across the road, so
supremely adapted,
they know
we're just an illusion,
like all the others
who came before.