Stood on the roof
hot wind pushing hair horizontal
plastering pajamas to my side,
I watched them dance below,
two hundred movers
between carts of booming bangra.
The dust storm forked lightening
on the desert edge of town,
forcing its quarry into my eyes,
stinging my pores
Sepia-ising the street uprising.
Frenetic beat and shrieking brass
reverbed against my villa view
and fortress walls
electrified dust enough
to put hairs on ends
in lesser winds
Quite magical then,
the moment when
I first felt
that I was alone.
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