Don't expect a story here. These six lines work more like a handful of sharp images thrown together, and the meaning comes from how they collide.
The opening line, "the wound boils," sets a painful, feverish tone. Then the wound seems to turn into "dots of hot sand," as if hurt has scattered into tiny burning grains. The words "for home" are puzzling. They might suggest a longing for home, or sand heading toward it, but the poem doesn't say. That openness is part of the feeling: a speaker aching for somewhere they can't quite reach.
The last two lines swap pain for machinery. The heart is greasy, like a part that keeps something running, and the dream is a turbine, something that spins and drives. Together they make emotion feel mechanical, almost industrial. The mood is tense, hot, and restless, with tenderness tucked inside something hard and worn. It's best read slowly, letting each image sit before the next arrives.