Sandstorm

The moon is inching back
Towards its pigmy crevices.
Thalidomide moon,
Diminished ellipse.

Its vacuous eye
Retraces its dark low tides
In a convolution of mirrors,
Reflecting nothing but themselves;
Dim as tarnished Cairo brass.

What fears summons these angry winds?
These great bellows that blast the desert into the sky,
And drown the night in the dark blood of garnets?

Love cannot enter here.
And dust is a howling cannibal.
Whatever it sees, it swallows whole.
It cancels the night trees,
And bleeds the blackness into ash.

We do not touch.

These are not stars
Sieving through the murky swirl.
These are
Writhing Swastikas
Gunning for the silence
Of pulverised dissidence.

O madness,
Dance of molecules, of elementals!
Hot and mystical!
Your glow is an eternity at the point of transfiguration;
When memory circulates like the bloodstream;
When love is a shadow;
Evanescent and fleeting;
Elusive as the phantom waters of mirage.

Can we be finite, or
Boundless as a sphere?
Can we grasp,
The space between words?