Their Bounds Divide

On either side, the sands absorb the treads.
In the sand it becomes clear that no secrets
Are being told as the wheels keep spinning.
Sinking in is a secret of its own,
The invisible library of dread.
My soul magnifies my mistake. Dig in.
What would it be like to spin forever?
Hasn't anyone ever kept roaring
The engine without easing up a bit,
Without stopping and then trying again?

Granted the gift of inertia, why wait
To discover the possibilities
Of escape? Keep pressing hard, motionless,
And recognize motionlessness unreal
As the ability to keep moving
By preference, in preferred directions
Over endlessly beguiling desert.
Be beguiled. Be oblivious as night
To the furious turning of all wheels.
If stuck, then never the more stuck turning,

Never the less. A hot wind through windows
Gets the vapors from lifting the wet hair
Wicking the bent back, the cricked neck, the arms
Of the animal crouched in the machine
Believing the machine is of its making,
An heirloom like the Air Loom, a madness
Out the grail of a brain. Nope. The jail
A skull contains barely incarcerates
Even temporarily the dreaming
Of machines that claw our designs in sand.