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Wednesday, March 13, 2013

El Invierno 2012






The desert does this.
Coalesces fears or rippled aspirations. Binds them in a band of
chalk-dried root. 
Used to feed fruit that danced in thorns. 
Used to
elongate your visions or press them into a two-dimensional vanishing view.
The desert does this.


The one that births uncurious people or purple streaks in a rhythmic sunset. 
Rocks 
the infant howls or procures 
scratchy black pelts named coyote, javelina.



Mi desierto:
The one 

that grows 
so wise with its dry-humored secrets. 
The sighs of them push up through steam-rising washes. 
The one 
that wails wetness of a monsoon’s beatings.


It--
Hums as 
crackling skeletons of cholla sequester humanity’s tendrils to kiss the lower parts of the ground. 
Come down into this subterranean monument. 
Bury opportunities or sheet them variously. 
Quickly, 
they dust upon themselves.
 
Mi desierto:
Carries with it edifying lessons of patience and persistence. 
The one 
sage-scented breeze 
spun in between slow time.
 

It-- 
Warm, gold painted on your skin.

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