The dunes ten thousand miles away
hum for ten thousand years.

A hum I feel through my feet when I breathe hard,
bent over the kitchen sink,
gasping for air between big, fat
gulps of chalky tap water.

I refill the glass and hand it to him.

And so quickly did she puddle – spilled candle wax under a waning moon –

slowly starting to slice silently into a juicy tomato and to have barely imperceptibly snapped the skin and – dust –




that I wondered if she had been real at all.

She ate rose petals,
and with her hands to the ground,
she felt the earthworms’
chants vibrate from the soil below.

We’ll use your body to make flower chain crowns.

I fall asleep to a hum I feel more than hear
- a neighbor’s fridge?

They’ll find six pounds of honeycomb there next year.

In the morning,
three perfect endive-leaf insect wings on my pillow.