Sometimes I Believe I'm a Moroccan Poet Exiled on Mars

But I'm from the middle of another country.My cells are snow crystals with faults perpetuallybreaking      fusing to others.I see red      violet in an opal sky.

In autumn the pies are pumpkin      cherry.But for nine years I've written poemsnear sea water       on beaches wherecamels graze longing not to see seas.

But I want to see them.Not storms swirling pages to ash.So much red moving clockwise      counter.Where are the clocks? Time as pastoral.

The budding bursting the flightof seeds      the spheres of haywound on land purged.But all I see is dust      my hand in dust.

I'm writing in dust.What I'm writing will become dust.I'm the premonitionof dust exiled here.