Quetch

Tendril wafted dunes
of barren sands waffle,
swirl across mile
upon mile in every direction-
your face appears a horizon away,
there is little comfort found
in accompanying echoes.

Drifting sticks
wail in the pitched wind,
stretched on distant recollection-
stylus of the scribe named Regret;
each flurrying breeze
turns a new page,
taking with it freshly shed tears.

Foetid droppings
of some wastrel desert vagabond
provide a vivid reminder
of how it can never be again,
to kick it away
would only contaminate
these well-worn wandering shoes.

Head facing forward
wherever the nose points
except in the back of the mind
where the oasis burbles-
each leafy frond conceals
intimate moments now buried
within the unmindful desert's gut.