Dreaming the Shamal

You are wading through fathoms of dust.
The faintest, stained sunlight pierces 
the flooded landscape.
 
You shoulder the red murk, 
head tucked, windward eye closed
and leeward eye squint-slitting sand-spray.

You chart your course by a row of boulders
edging the buried road. A eucalyptus rustles and sways,
spilling silt from dry leaves; 
pigeons ruffle dust from dry wings and coo. 

Your silt-soaked scarf fails your aching lungs.

The drowned headlights of a lone vehicle tremble past.
Currents of dust flow over concrete walls 
and wash against vague
buildings skulking behind them. 

You are like a sea-forgotten ghost
scuttling along the boulevard of an ancient, 
sunken city.