Out here a pulse of heat blots the voices,
Blots the lightest sounds; the sun acts peculiarly,
The moon is dry, glides overhead thirsty
As a cattle skull — no gesture from a well.
In this desert, air trolls for water; lizard tongues
Could not possibly accommodate a drop;
One wearies in this heat-cracked nomad spot.
Objects beside imaginary roads driving north
In a sandstorm, brash spirits chummy to a blow;
And the cricket frogs with their blinded eyes
Shadow in the rocks; away the herbage of sand,
Like pilgrims away from the labeled land,
Horizons too far, a sort of vengeance;
Each day, each night — soughs the old vermilions.
Their crimson colors in ticking hours redress
Their dominance; assert themselves in
Gigantic steps, yet mean so little to a desert —
Numb as petrified wood; in a day, in a month
They may have well never happened.
Out here in the grain and stone, it’s dry,
Bones of water; swelter and cold, abandoned thirst.
Copyright © 02/28/18 lance sheridan®