Irradiations XVII

The wind that drives the fine dry sand Across the strand: The sad wind spinning arabesques With a wrinkled hand.

Labyrinths of shifting sand, The dancing dunes!

I will arise and run with the sand, And gather it greedily in my hand: I will wriggle like a long yellow snake over the beaches. I will lie curled up, sleeping, And the wind shall chase me Far inland.

My breath is the music of the mad wind; Shrill piping, stamping of drunken feet, The fluttering, tattered broidery flung Over the dunes' steep escarpments.

The fine dry sand that whistles Down the long low beaches.