These Hazy Days

The Penny-Pinchers Pass

You are alone in vast sands
That rustle in the blue breeze.
You wade through tides of
Whitewashed jawbones
And hollow eyes. Dust
Coats the windowpane.

Heat rises, and falls,
And rises again like the
Flank of a sleeping dog.

You boot it in the ribcage.
It rots. The vultures come.
They tilt their wings and dive
To claim the flesh, already gray.
The sick tearing of their beaks
Is exhilarating.

Soon they return to the sky.
Back and forth the penny-pinchers pass,
Black blades revolving; misread turning signals.

You fall for them into the sand.
You offer them your ripened skin
And your body that has wilted.
You say "See here?", chords
Parched to cracking.
You lay yourself down
Among the piles of clean white
And pretend to be unmoving.

But still the penny-pinchers pass you by
And search for another sweeter than you
From their empty, sun-bleached skies.