Ash Wednesday

The dancing sands

of this vast desert

have found their way

inside.  Beneath
the salted slug

of this parched tongue,
there lies  the dust.
                                Some dried wafer,

some bitter pill,

is crumbling. 

There is no word

for this, no curl of lips

nor burst of air.  The wax

of your expression, the smile--
its arrogant silence--
is melting.

There is heat

in faith and zealotry,
a fire that has taken
all that is combustible
(and stolen
all of the oxygen 

out of the room).

What ruins are these

smoldering?  Perhaps 

some prayers are carried 

on the thinning evidence

of smoke.  And so...

This calloused thumb

would rub the sleep

from your third eye

or dry its tears with certainty,
the winter blindness.

The satisfaction spread

in marking meets 

the beauty extracted 

from a target by the aim.

The wild palms are apprehensive

when called upon to applaud.  

Lifelines and lovelines 

are untangled into maps 

that might lead nowhere.  That might

make for better incense 

than for shade.