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A recorded reading of “Blue Hollow”. If the player does not load, use the original audio source.
The dune keeps no footprint. Wind lifts the blue sand, spills each grain past the palm’s small counting. A flower stands in the hollow. Not fire— the shape flame might take if flame could suffer a root’s dark work. Cold gathers at its stem. The hand remembers its fist. It stays open. No knee darkens the ground. What passes through is less body than threshold, less crown than the space a crown leaves empty. No tablet. No mouth. Only the sun’s last coin, unspent, tilted in the sand’s blue cup. Beneath each grain, thirst waits without a throat. The petals keep their heat. Morning will find no altar, only the hollow bright where nothing knelt, and the horizon, blue rim raised to the lip of thirst, not drinking.
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