This house is a house full of sand.
It invades the cracks, inundates the crevices, infects the wrinkles of my skin.
Grinding, grinning, eroding everything, it touches.
Wood smooth, flesh raw,
a paradox of application.
Each room is half filled with it,
hourglass high,
Passageways like ochre trenches mark the common ground.
A fever of stingrays pass by the window
a sea born memory of flight, of light, crackling, electric.
In the dull lit hallway,
a crooked bookcase.
Sand-bound volumes, destructive to each other,
never opened, never read,
parched paper yellows tooth-like,
toothless ideas crumble,
dust to dust, rust to rust,
misbegotten and forgotten
The boiling waves erode the rocks,
splitting and spitting a granular conversation.
Dredged memory crushed microscopic,
sand castles, sandbags, sand the size of sauros worlds,
it lays in the ignored corners of your room,
Swept neatly, nearly, imperfectly, clean.