Ephemera, We Are Poem by Dennis Ryan

Monday morning, December 19,2022

Events, displays, that final parade
of nation at tournament's end, World Cup.
All matches are played yesterday. Play out.
Sand. Grains of sand from Qatar, elsewhere.
The wind blows the sand across our deserts,
the Kalahari, the Negev, the Gibson, Death Valley,
the Atacama. Is something caught there, contained
therein? Ask, but don't ask me—I am blown farther away,
much farther away than your imagination can trace.