and a good wind
will move mountains.
But these are not mountains,
only men. Each stands
with his own hat in his own pose,
and each stares into the blind eye of the camera
with almost the indifference
with which the blind sun stares. Their lives
have come to this. What moves on the horizon
no longer moves them. Like the dust storm’s
gray aftermath, they are a stunned stillness
where the wind has been.
A dust storm begins
with a single gray particle, dislodged into wind
and looking for home. All heat and hunger,
it owns nothing and so has nothing to give.
What stands in the wind it demolishes.
What it has picked clean it leaves for the living.