The dirt is one thing. A tarantula another. A cosmic slipping up the mud for miles. Your wings against the storms. In abundance shrinks from the tangles Homo sapiens have made. The dirt and her roses hungry in a moonlight of swimming in the lake alone. The sand biting at my mouth as I drove away.

Smeared on the horizon. Not unlike pain. Dissolute. Dunes and weeds, boy. Dunes and weeds.