Broken panes of the window above me
send in the cool Pacific breeze
Breathing so alive, animate in dry gold
The scorpions would know the same
It’s the sea they say, and hold to it
Tenuous but wise; no tears in the heat
This is the desert.
But the sand is not totally gold
It’s made of guano and shell
A trembling painting
I am here, in this crazy opposition.
My stay is near its end, what do I leave?
I have never been committed to anything.
7th November, 1984.