Sand Thief


Aleksey N

I wake an impressionist

My invertebrate tongue

Passing slowly over

Your unshaven throat

What of the dreams I held?

Pendulous in a feathered web

I shall never again know them

The sun has stolen the sand

From between my lashes

Stolen the wind from beneath

My weathered soles

The alarm is amnesia

An urge that accumulates

In the perforation of my bones


The day is far more practical

She likes her coffee thick

Without accoutrement

Her shoes permissive

That she can endure

Another arduous revival


What use is designation?

There is only the weekday

And the weekend

I do not even know

Which I prefer

I wait in lines

In boxes

On the starving shelves

Of a withered beneficence

I do not know myself

This automaton

This artificial lung

That hyperventilates

At the start of endeavor

I do not know

This paraffin-glazed recluse

Who consumes entire closets

With clothes

She is too self-conscious to wear

I do not know

This flightless starling

Who fashions nests

Of human hair


Bring me the idealist

The somnambulist

The illusionist

She has the requisite

Dose of fire

She knows the delirium

My shade-dwelling violets keep

For she is none other than Eye

The medial eye of phantasmagoria


Hopefully my work didn’t suffer too much for my time limitations