Dunes

I can feel sand in my hair. It’s in my hair and my hands between my fingers, in every pocket of my pants and jacket and in my shoes. The grains crunch beneath my feet, between my teeth and against the metal links of my wristwatch. I can hear the sand constantly, regardless of how much fills my ears. The earth is covered in it, my bed is made of it, my food is seasoned with it, and its presence is inescapable even in the darkness of starlight. My dreams are of cornmeal dunes painted with windswept strokes of spilt wine, looming in the lazy pomegranate glow of another faded day. And when I wake up, I see these images in front of me and I wonder. I sit and I wonder with sand in my hair.