The First Cousin
for Bertram Mourits


The suspension of the beach
and a honey locust, an abacus
and a sheaf of wheat leads
to his cousin, alone in the sand.

The desert is wet, the cousin says.

Here, water is merely rented.
The trees are olives, forsaken and dry.
Twelve depths deep no water flows.
The wind is cruel and the sand, it stings.
The desert is wet, the cousin says.

The desert is wet, the cousin says.

Crawling home to die close to the ground,
in a grove that never existed, the sand
still stings without relent and the
abacus is not a useful instrument.