Critics be damned I won't try
to please anyone here unless
you swallow this handful of holy sand
and tell me if land can truly belong
to a body—the old wolves grinning
at the rabbits, they tip their hats
to the tales that pass from one generation
to the next, paper dominoes in flames
disrupting the entire industry of fire
with their extinguishing truths.
My father used to sell them by the
dozens, in the business of multiplying need
door-to-door, an ocean-to-desert desire
to pretend I'm some cold genius