Hereabouts is desert, it's a bad country, grows nothing, nothing to show for, sand has no whereabouts, goes everywhere and nowhere like a sea: yes, I said, and noticed the flash of sun on grit and knew that all the hourglasses in the world had broken and this was the sum of all the hours of the world. Did you ever see a man bleed in sand? I asked him, did you ever see a soldier, a khaki hero with his life blood blotting entirely and quickly into the khaki sand? Did you ever see a man drown in quicksand or, let alone a man, a tree or a bedstead? It's not just that there's so much of it, he said, nor the bitter heat of it nor its blinding glare but it's the shiftlessness, that there's no purpose here, nothing but a blanket warming a blanket, or a sum multiplying and dividing itself forever, a sum adding and subtracting itself for ever and ever. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ROCK ME TO SLEEP by ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN MACDONALD'S RAID - A.D. 1780 by PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE A STRIP OF BLUE by LUCY LARCOM AN EARNEST SUIT [TO HIS UNKIND MISTRESS NOT TO FORESAKE HIM] by THOMAS WYATT THE BUBBLE by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM AUTUMN SOLILOQUY by ELSIE DINWIDDIE BARTLETT ANNIVERSARIUM BAPTISMI (3) by JOSEPH BEAUMONT |