Dune grasses white and sky
and ocean a massive blackness.
When I am most hurt,
this is how I see the world,
monochrome, the contrast turned
way up. I suppose I am
a little wounded now, by the dream
of the ultrasound, the black
screen and white wand revealing
only more bad news. I’d be fine never
to enter again my interior. Its stark, ruined
topography like the moon
desperately probed for life. I’ve tried.
Years. To change my suffering, my ways
of seeing it. My failures in this
have made my career, which has carried me
here. You can hear the roar
with the door open, which I’ve done.