dorothea lange

Sand crawls and grows
and covers up
the roads.
Wind comes and wraps up that sand,
run it up higher than a telephone pole.
Sand grows. It grows.
It crawls.
In dunes. On roads. White sand. Swept from everything.
Strangers sweeping sand away.
It just comes back.
Even in a jar. Crawls up. Fills what’s there.
Fourteen feet a year
it grows,
they say.
Grows and crawls until maybe
no world left to see.
I suppose it’ll cover up everything
one day,
even me.

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