Scoundrel Time

Vanishing Point

For as far as we can see, they trudge across swirling sand toward us

At the gate, one child’s blinks, such a uniform degree of metronomic motion with inky
lashes—they seem to make an audible click, the second hand of memory, calligraphic

Tropics of Cancer and Capricorn, slung like bejeweled belts around the plump equator,
mirror constellations named by ancestors enamored with story

Some scale cliffs to the north through the use of projections, distortions, grips and divots
in the rock-faces, unable to be seen but read like Braille with fingertips, sacred texts

Within the muddy river, a long-legged white Ibis anchors the shallows, angling
for crustaceans, unaware of the lyrical lilt of his down-turned bill

I draw a dot here, representing a distance I’d like to span, though the promise of arrival
doesn’t exist