Sand

In the Namib Desert, where sand
flows like water under the sighing
winds, the golden mole swims
at night, breathing air trapped
between the turning grains.

A world away, on a day as silent
as clouds passing, you lie back
at the edge of a lake, your slow limbs
teasing the sand as his tongue
collects the wet syllables of your skin.

Like the alligator, the mole
attacks from below, dragging its
victim down in a shock of locked jaw
grinding sand with flesh
as the desert repairs itself.

In praise of you, he multiplies himself,
the deep moisture flowing
over the sunny castle of your bodies.
Inside, you are singing,
your voice like wind laced with sand.

Roger Pfingston