“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.
