poem

Walking off a plane into a desert,
a heat becomes a hurt:
sanded skin, I gaze down from tall.
Toes care not for love, specifics, all.

A longing is a scar. The air is dry.
The ground is full of weather, oceans passed
evaporated evidence of skies,
ancient breaths, boulders, dust: our vast.

Bygones you and I, like fossils of raindrops, rise
into an endless sun that hugs away the details.
Cancels the proofs, the crazy eyes
that soft in cordial sunsets, caressed the shales.

Away. For always, there is in that a way.
And why, would I in rhymes find you again?
Away! For I could not in deserts find a prayer
To say. Or in this burnt oasis claim you friend.

My longing is my scar. The clouds are dead.
My muscles find the earth, the soil burns.
We split the cactus needles, bed by bed,
collapse all castles: rusting turn by turn.