The Wake

The blood in his mouth stuck to his teeth
like hot caramel, bubbling
with each heavy, humid breath.
Drying flesh turned to wax
over his fingertips in the
blaring moon’s siren.

“Maybe I am the Jackal”
Squatting, he scooped up
a hand full of sand and
let the grains trickle
between his digits.
Smells like wet leaves
and blue sky, he thought.
Looking over the dunes,
the muses smiled.
The body of his lust
remained twitching in the sand
stinking with liquid morals.