An ancient sword jabs the guts,
Up through the dune                         into the dreams.
                                                           Hug the sand and it will stab you:

Popson dreamed he was riding his horse across Oregon.
He was thrown and kicked and convulsed with dehydration.

The desert and the forest meet in our bellies.
The sand creeps into you. You can't get free of it.
The enemy doesn't have to attack, or even to fight.

                                                           The sand is an ocean of mirrors.
                                                           Every night we cling to it and no one stirs.

Volume 1, Issue 2, 2007