by Stephen Lefebure
Sand is called to prayer, and makes ablution
As it must, with dirt, with hands like hair.
Passing through all windows, doors and shutters
Sand considers water a pollution,
Sky a road, the wind a thobe to wear –
Sand is one long trachea which utters
Cries: its inarticulate locution
Summons everything into the air.
Most effective when its message stutters,
Sand disperses with no diminution.
On its blackened knees, sand bends to prayer,
Throws its forehead to the Earth, and mutters.
Poetry by Stephen Lefebure appears in print periodicals and on websites of varying combinations of respectability and coolness. It might also be found between the pages of volumes in the secret lending libraries of Arabia, on the lotus leaves at the base of the pillar of Ashok in Nepal. One anthology called Wild Song presents it along with poetry by much more famous people.
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