together. But in the morning there was only sand, sullen-strange but no stranger, silicon icon stealing along the limestone sill.
So how do I spend my time? Listening to sand, the sand that eats words just as the wind dines on dunes, sand spittering like a rainstick.
Attention sand! I say. But after all these years sand ignores the sand man.
This is urgent, I cry. But might as well be talking to myself.
This sand sounds a thousand zithers, Silurian crwth, Blackfoot flute, each string of the Paraguayan harp and when the tide goes out every footstep has a hissy fit.
Now, sand’s aria is in the laptop and in the camera, sand’s atoms split, splitting.