Over wispy, white fields
And cracked clay,
He dragged his torn
Leather boots and the lump
That slumps in his gut
Where no light
Will ever see.
With that
Burden, that
Bolder, that
Heap of shredded bones,
He let slip
The rocky dust
Of the road down
Under his sole.
Step after step
He stepped, always
Knocking a stone into
His skin to the point
That red water leaked out.
He, a desert cactus,
Bloomed for a day
And a day no more. A bee,
Drawn to his nectar,
Sniffed out his flower
And thought it a rose. “A rose
And no more. A rose
With a thorn or two.
No more.” Night
Came, and the flower’s
Death soon after. Only
Then, the bee, bug-eyed,
Danced and a troubled dance
And zipped back
To the company
Of its throbbing hive.
He Who Wanders 