This poem came from viewing Rousseau's Sleeping Gypsy. The desert around is totally dead.Without scale, and alone in your position beneath the Milky Way, you maybe be as big or as small as you wish to be.
That said, the picture reminds me of the night I slept outdoors on Inis Mór.Many years ago (too many to admit to). In the middle of the night I woke up; there was a donkey's face within 6 inches of mine. Do you have any idea How big a donkey's head is?
The other memorable detail from that same weekend was a girl wading in the shallows playing with a dogfish. She was putting her palm under it and throwing it maybe 6 foot away, and it was coming back again and again like a dog chasing a ball. I wouldn't have thought it likely.
Dream
The desert has
no wings
to ruffle the air
nor insect
to displace a sand grain
nor throat
to crease the silence.
The desert is
a platform
on which I stand,
and am
as I dream:
atom or planet,
as colossal, as minute.
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