Adrift in a sea of fog; no sign
of shore nor sounds of waves lapping;
only maddening silence.
I cry out for a god but hear
only my own echo, a desperate voice
of desire flung on the shoals
of a ghost land.
The life I have constructed is crumbling.
The new has yet to unfold;
the whys, hows and wherefores vanish
As kids we called it chicken water, cast
upon blistering asphalt, cutting
through endless miles of low desert scrub;
sunrise, sunset, nothing changed fast
enough for us then.
Now here I write from the comfort
of my chair miles from those desert sands;
yet and still, the road beckons.
Caked earth yields to concrete laid
down everywhere to accommodate
our leave-taking. My dry mouth waters
at the approaching oasis,
as nearer it appears and nearer;
~ bj 2001, bj image Upolu Pt., 2006