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 bleak 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.