A Fibrous Current | Charles Thielman
We sit, awaiting starlight, eastern horizon
jack-booted into a waltz of hungers,
crusade, jihad, jihad, crusade.
A sidewinder shrugs history up a dune
as we gather wings snapped short of dream,
translating needs, wants as dusk comes on.
Talking about faith, loss of faith,
coaxing erasures from drain grates
into a fibrous current of giving and receiving
as gust blown embers sequin dusk.
We sit, awaiting starlight,
arranging mirage pieces just so,
talons of regret gone from pulse,
dusk silhouetted memories deepening
crow’s feet, smile lines,
so much to say before we exit,
walk out into the salted dark,
broke, yet trusting the sand,
barefoot, facing the undertow.