Running without legs.
A perfect apparition
of sandhills.

I cannot see far, but
hear the synchronized call,
of peacocks at midnight.

Cannot sleep. The solemn
mystery of dark is broken.
In the cracks, I am
discovering myself.

Was it not an enough reason
to abandon the search
of peace and return to killing―

the gods of clay and find
the sanctity of emptiness,
stripped to gravity?