Properties of Dirt

Then she saw the streets between the crumbled knees of ruined queens,
Statues torn apart from every time her children fought,
A pack of hungry dogs that lick her hands and howl at mournful sounds
From smokeless, lonely towers,
The cold wind pushing up their empty mouths.

You're not alone--Godforsaken, maybe--but you've got a brand new home.

They creep over glass, the missing tears of Lincolns, Cadillacs,
Millions of themselves, the city's salt that glitters from the ground.

You're not alone...

Your room's near the top, where spiders tie your dreams in silky knots,
A board game made of wood, your head against the sloping roof,
A game devised by men who serve the caliph's court and study sand,
The properties of dirt, the smallest stones that work their way through her.

You're not alone...