Sestina #1

The shuttle is weaving a blanket of words,

It ducks and bobs and spins as I write,

The echoes of the pen flow in waves,

And the wreathed silence around will keep me dry

As I move from coast to coast, a nomad,

And always fall into this enveloping silence.

 

This warm moving humid hurtful silence

Is sometimes too much, I cocoon myself in words

While I bump from train to train, a nomad

Who just wanted to leave to make things right.

Now the AC is humming and sucking me dry,

The air, like paralysis, coming in waves.

 

All night, the stuck record, your hand waves,

Rippling the air crafting cool hollows in the silence

That make me think of the desert, cruising dry

And bleaching the sense and feeling from words

That crumble even as I write,

Myself, sleeping on the sandy ground, a nomad.

 

I rise wreathed in morning mist, a nomad

Seeking the tall grass that waves

Across the Pacific, where I used to write

In a cold spindly hand, etching silence

Ironically enough, into words

That,later, fat women hang out to dry.

 

My eyes have never been so dry

From the stinging sand, I run, a shellshocked nomad

And shelter under an outcrop of sandstone words

That arc and reach in bleakĀ strata like waves

But still, hammering like blood, comes silence

On gold wings, hallmarked and utterly right

 

Again the still stifling evening, I write

In watery ink, hang the words to dry,

Plane the edges off, the shavings twist into silence

In which the crack of dust is a sandstorm, a nomad,

A sound spreading outwards in waves,

Stronger than the shock of icy water poured onto molten words.

There is always something not right with the nomad,

Something missing, sickening in dry waves,

Grinding down the words, the silence, the sestina.

 

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