VIGNETTE OF A BOY LOST IN THE DUNES OF DREAM

behind the ìrókò tree, I sat, head buried
into the burrow of my arms like chitons
in a stream of boulders. the burning breeze leapt
into tingles—darkness smooched the sky
into a splurge of stars. my phone rang
& it was my mother. she prayed,
boy, may you return home—
which is to say my brother went
& the field became a grave—which is
to say my name is hope & my body, a light
at the end of her tunnel.
I fell silent like the decibels of an anechoic chamber.
it’s my 22nd year & my palms are still barren
like the scalp of an octogenarian.
see, I have wandered too long in the wasteland
like a waxwing in the art of seeking.
I held too long to this rope of dreams—
when will these muon of dust metamorphose
into a body of light? when will these pages
of poems musicalize into vocals of a song?
when will this body cultivate an orchard of joy?