It is a loose sleeve whose hair wraps the
Bedouin on his pony and then slings him
Into the wind, always to be a monad
In the tango of his pleasures that are
Swifter than the words of his pursuers
Who curse the sand because their stings
Are as undifferentiated and soft as birds’

The track of the arrow through the feathers
That’s what will is, to be floating there
In the smoke of the wreckage, and the burning leaves
Release their brown numbers to the air
That ascends across us into the future, like tones
That detach themselves from the harmonic
Of the planet as it screeches back into the past