‘Kafka’ and the weight of lingering sands

UN Avenue Encore

That evening

everyone was gripped by
the traffic of clouds above.
By the book, this happens
every time an angel arrives…”


How is it that she’s not sure if the sands are dry?
Do they ever get dry? Do they ever want to speak of oceans?
Of angels darting above the breakers cresting in silence?
Of secrets buried in the seabed where all gods repose?
Can the moon carry the weight of their destiny
Like a man carries the weight of his pocket?
Can angels swim like the fish?

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