Everyone who had a life in the evil ugly desert knew he would
get lucky
Some day, either a huge herd of fat lambs would rampage
Over the dunes, dune after dune, shitting to a depth of 6 inches
Rich shit spreading like an insane river,
Or it would rain
there,
and not there, and the Russians would
die and
he
would live.
Most in these tribes had unnatural, half-baked voices like mine
In
prayer but like you did not believe in apocalypse
As from bombs or a sour mist mixing volatilely with sand
As I believed, for they lived near an unfilled river
Whose substance filled their souls and grew a city of fat, wet
fruit.
By the way, there is a soul, and not just people
To love-Jews, Arabs, sand, oil, and poetry,
The holy geography of little hills and great trains the odor of
solder-
Or perhaps there is not.
