At 21 Miles Per Hour:

I am a worn out traveler
of the sand; and I live
to return to the places
I’d been before.

Return. I guess there’s no hope of return.
Not in these shoes;
They were calmly worn down by those damn grains,
grains of serene
sand.

It’s getting in my eyes and carving out
a tunnel in my skin;
it turns my eyes milky;
I am altered

by the swirling of the God-forsaken sand.
I can’t recall where I’ve been;
the stuff must have gotten
in my brain. The sand