But I’m from the middle of another country.My cells are snow crystals with faults perpetuallybreaking      fusing to others.I see red       violet in an opal sky.In autumn         the pies are pumpkin         cherry.But for nine years I’ve written poemsnear seawater         on beaches wherecamels graze longing not to see seas.But I want to see them.Nor storms swirling pages to ash.So much red moving clockwise         counter.Where are the clocks? Time as pastoral.The budding         bursting         the flightof seeds         the spheres of haywound on land purged.But all I see is dust         my hand in dust.I’m writing in dust.What I’m writing will become dust.I’m the premonitionof dust exiled here.