In A Landscape

I must impose. I am
the ocean, the only thing
displaced on the flats, undessicated.
Stomach full with salt and names,
holding a trumpet. Enough spit
to split between valve and desert
I play a dirge, Miles Davis
on a viking funeral pyre,
but it’s the world that’s mourned,
carried on the shoulders of notes.
My hate burns the air
then like Ouroborous heats itself
to flashpoint. I made this place,
not the sun. Mine, the blinding
shell of the sky, the rocks that pulse
in my sight like atria, I have lost
her. Mirage and rage. The dirt
ocean boils and it’s there,
the sound of my breath
paused in exhaustion,
running to catch an arsis.