Scarab

A beetle rolls a ball of dung across sands whose grains endlessly form configurations whose structures mimic all memory and thought. All striving and loss is written there. A sea of grains; shifting like the enstranged waters of timespace. A beetle rolls a ball of dung across the day, as if it were a strange traverse whose pattern could never be written but had, instead, to be declared in active intimacy with the moments, the angles, the surfaces and a sphere of shit in which the universe is known to be housed. Across sands whose grains are minds. Whose winds are stars. Whose fingers, time.