This tract dividing us is not for
tumbleweed:
although fixed greenless, they carry seeds.
This space is only for the calcium
ghosts
of once thirsty beasts.
The stinging intermittence of
wind-hurled grains
masking my foot-borne dents,
while pale moon’s vigil
threatens to freeze the loose ground
even when the fiery orb returns.
Yet my shadow still grinds across the
sand
for a want I have by blue and polkadot
black
for a girl named you.
Neck-eye gestures from vultures above
portend the outcome of this foolish
quest,
yet the self-drawn mirages draw me on…
