Stone Drunk on the Desert (and Fistfuls of Sarah's Cornbread)

Oh gods, the sacred
Desert, no wonder
Humans, inventors
Of so many things,
Here invented djinns.

It rises, it sends
Itself over me,
Over everything
Born not of barren,
Nor simplicity

But of the heavy
Hanging abundance
Of green oases,
Tropic plantations,
And English meadows.

This is not our ground.
This is Vulcan, Mars,
A place to believe 
In bone-dry spirits
Truer than wet flesh.

It will kill you fast
If you tempt it, if
You walk waterless,
Coverless in it.
Who knows that you're here?