It stands against a marathon of sand
creosote winds playing the air in scented ribbons.
The way it feels;
                  the way it is –
        quilted together like conflicting fabrics.

Too great a thing to be disregarded,
too great a thing to accept.

Sanity keeps it always obscured,
                              out of focus;
the malignant veil a mere lifetime away,
too close for comfort.