Wind

This is a city of exiles.
In spring the wind lifts from the surface
of the Dead Sea over the wilderness
in a blast of sand.

It blows on the carpets as we beat them
until the threads are raw
and fail apart from each other.

All day we hear the shutters
trying to hang on, grinding
their teeth between the slats.

It blows on the ones who arrive
and the ones who leave.
The dust never settles
from so much coming and going.