Itself

Mysterious whispers at four a.m.,
A light rain slipping into the desert
And leaving again. When it’s dark enough

And your local people quiet enough,
Most of them sleeping, homeostatic
Machines muttering softly to themselves,

Other senses can exult, the slight touch
Of a damp wind, the smell of the wet sand,
Petrichor but with that desert terroir,

The satisfaction of the internal
Thermal contentment, the body compact
Within in its wrappings, breathing in slowly,

Indulging the mind, letting it chew bones
With no other minds to play with for now—
The world is still all world. It is itself.