anything to stay under
under the surface
under the weather
anything to escape
the missile heat-seeking
your heart
what there is of it
is an orchestra in the desert
grains rubbing
in the wind
trillions of 'em
suspicious white noise rising
till you wake
look at the skull beside you
on the pillow
the pillow of sand
the brain on the pillow
the flaps of face flapping
slow as kelp
you have every reason
to be sceptical
but don't give in yet
this thing that recently
guzzled novels, sang
and deliberated
over licorice
is snoring, not
drowning
not dreaming