A butterfly

darkens. Lowers itself from the massive white cloud

migrating north toward the Sahara.

The desert is moving south.

Beneath the still, blue co-

efficient of sky, ash  

slivers from the spire of smoke.

The massive white clouds.

They make this heat feel like solitude. 

The desert’s shells and their cargo, this in utero numbness—how involuntarily

the world formed around us.

Wood glue mixed with paint, the burlap frays sizzle.

Senoubi ages the masks in the fire.

I should not be so satisfied

bothering this upon you,

as if your own memory

could not conjure so simple a perfection.

Beyond the rows of rubber trees, another massive white cloud.

You can make hunger go away, but it will take everything with it.