The Book of Weston

In that arid wilderness, he stares

out from the blackest of eyes

into a void created for him

of pleasures, golden futures,

powers he has never known.

He shifts his crusted tongue

to speak them away,

but the Word is parched and silent.

If he closes his eyes, submits himself

to these gilded visions from below

- these endless tunnels of bliss

stretching on and on -

he will lose this aching gut

that drives him forward,

he will lose these callused feet

that carry him there,

he will lose this sun-scorched face,

these sunken cheeks,

that capture his flock,

and he will gain the whole World,

this whole dirty aching World.

He sees just outside his peripheral

a single rock balanced improbably

on its end like a delicate egg. He blinks.

Nearby, wind stirs a vortex of dust

that spins, then as quick as it rose, dies.

He doesn't close his eyes.