Quetch

Tendril wafted dunes
of barren sands waffle,  
swirl across mile
upon mile in every direction-
your face appears a horizon away,
there is little comfort found
in accompanying echoes.


Drifting sticks
wail in the pitched wind,
stretched on distant recollection-
stylus of the scribe named Regret;
each flurrying breeze
turns a new page,
taking with it freshly shed tears.


Foetid droppings
of some wastrel desert vagabond
provide a vivid reminder
of how it can never be again,
to kick it away
would only contaminate
these well worn wandering shoes.


Head facing forward
wherever the nose points
except in the back of the mind
where the oasis burbles-
each leafy frond conceals
intimate moments now buried
within the unmindful desert's gut.