You’ve wrought a mountain from the sand in your pocket
You carried it around and put it down
A little pile on the table top
Barely an inch high
My blood has pooled in the street like an estuary
I’ve sobbed naked in the shower recess of a five star hotel
Been lost in the wilderness
Fucked without being asked my name
My bones have been pecked over by a murder of women
I’ve argued with the devil when he was good and drunk
I’ve crushed a pomegranate and let the juice run
Between my fingers, over my knuckles and down the elbow
And you bring me sand?
You don’t even know how it came to be in your pocket
A few thousand tiny grains
That you haven’t even named
And now you insist I pay attention
To this pathetic offering
I should give it all my time you say
Even when the sky is on fire
Demons multiply in the streets now
They’re everywhere in ties and business attire
And the moralising masses have come for my friends
And I am to get excited about this close game
You’ve wrought a mountain from the sand in your pocket
It’s all you can offer you say
When time is revealed as an illusion
And all mathematics equals zero
With each unfolding, the divine face changes
I am left to wonder at the expressions she shows
Never too long, her mood is malleable
I’m always behind in my understanding
Leave your sand on the table top then
It will be blown away or wiped clear in an instant
You insist it is a towering mountain
But it’s only a little pile of sand