The day-moon desert

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®

The day-moon desert

4 comments on “The day-moon desert

  1. Barbara says:

    Lance this showed this reader the true meaning of an arid and dry season dying of thirst. Your images awakened this reader to what happens to our earth when it’s without water. Your writings amaze me Lance, they’re perfect – love them – I’d rate this one another ACE for you.

  2. I’ve traveled a little out West. I can’t imagine how the Indians survived in such a furnace.

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