"We have to be in a desert,
for he whom we must love is absent."
— Simone Weil
- Early morning and the mist, saturated with light,
- obscures the disappearing powerlines. A damp obscurity
- but a desert nonetheless: birds that fly into it
- lose their bodies and survive
- as the songs of birds, the tallest locust
- is nothing but the rustle of its leaves.
- Slowly the sun cuts and burns the haze away
- to re-embody each in a seedy yellow sleep.