I leave the sands on the floor of my home
so you can swish through in your sandals, or
bare footed in the granules, pick at stones.
I have the shades rolled, carpets up, brother
because the winds then can have a handle
to drag us on the dunes as they wander.
For we virile khans of unfastened stakes,
time can’t end murdered by jealous princes.
This ark is a mill which grinds its own wake.
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