The Little Box of Sand


The little box of sand calls mum
The little box of sand laughs at breath
The little box of sand is always well
It is sleep and the hand in it twitches
It is all the conversations of the traditions
and the revolutions
The cat puts his soft little anus on it
The grains clump like little orgies
The little box of sand is like naked
screaming stuff
It fucks the seed till it breaks it
It attacks the eyes of the wind
With beautiful gravity it pretends
to be a thing
The little box of sand
means international years
Bad ants hide their faces in it
and steal every ambition
of the shooting star
Inside it you can cry and understand
The little aria of air filters through
and fades away
The little box of sand is similar
to a grey sleeve and to the stump of a tree
Toes of all the little plants flick through it
looking for stale bodies
It is as calm as an egg to an outsider
I have no passion for it