Desert
Broken dreams.
Fronteirs
of symbolic darkness.
This is Land's end
( not the clothing company)
just
sun,
scorching summer's skin
and in winter
a cold that
permeates
bone.
There's poverty everywhere-
hunger, filth and rot...
And it's January already
( last night a hard frost fell)
I live with my own stink,
write,
fingers numb and white.
- I'm not a Dr. Zhivago
( there are no balailakas strumming)
Here,
there aren't any depictions
nor romantic
drama.
Only the real-
this daily dying
this damned desperation.