Somewhere out there
the picturesque desert is dotted
with a forlorn figure;
The buck skinned hunter gatherer
who finds his way
under the scorching sun
and against the sand storms
The only map in in his mind\'s eye
that knows the vast dunes
like the palm of his hand
-
There are no street names
There are no landmarks
and no trees
Still, he gets there;
Every time
It occurs to me;
I don\'t know him
yet, he knows my becoming
and the softness of the earth
beneath his feet
is sacred ground
My nicotine poisoned soul yearns
to borrow his cardinal instincts
for this lonesome search
of the self
whilst in my world
the coo of the distant
dusk dove still whispers
within me