A brown blanket draped over desert dunes,
the wind swooping in to pull at the threads-
cast the out like fishing lines, that

     whisper of years beneath the skin,
breaching the surface timidly, here or there-
memories as winding paths into a future of

   time sweeping into deep pools of darkness,
surrounded by sand blasted cold stone-
the blue of an ancient ocean petrified, like

     a forest of artifacts from the day before,
some reposed in a past hardly spoken-
others greet the day screaming white noise at

   the sound of a church bell at noon.
Tuesday- from the hollows of an old barn,
Struggling to live up to a repurposed dream.