On the sunless sands,
the blind men repeat
the same misery,
setting boards over the face
of their muse.

Circling the coffins
and prostrating to boards,
the men await fire
to light their skins
and birth the desert.
And the muse must burn,

even as
her breath
dampens her pyre.

The bodies of Plath and Sexton
were hacked apart,
and fleshy knobs glued
over the eyes of these men,
who say they've found sight
in the dark.

And I am not a man,
but I have nailed these boards
upon a warm body.
And anyone desperate
to build a sun on the sand

may eat their eyes
and worship boards
and forget the living.

I abandon that company
and trek the stark wild
in search of true kindling.

The desert is void
and formless
without the lone
and blazing mesquite.