I’ve built a house
besides a dusty road
leading to the country
still lie untouched
by urban hands
the wind has brought
a garden into the room
a host of drifting leaves
and settling dust
one my plough
a whole field of corn
on the dressing table
I couldn’t see myself
in the mirror, instead, I wrote
a poem across its face
so I could see my eyes
the wind has brought
sand dunes into the bedroom
and the bed has become
a dwarf pyramid
in a domestic desert
and getting to bed
is like stripping the earth
peeling layer after layer
to bury me deep down
in tombs of Tutankhamun
away from august winds
away from sand storms