by Gideon Burton
The tide of night must spill its inky brine
across the bleaching desert, conjugal
with rivered vinegars of rain. As time
unbinds, as darkness sends the animals
back to the inner caves, as blank
horizons blanch our certainties, as grains
of oxygen now dampen, heavy, rank
with humid resignation, as the stains
begin their sluggish peristalsis, wet
against our broken skin, as dust and mud
amalgamate, conspiring past regret
while stars attempt to navigate the blood
that films the upper bubble -- we believe
a little, sleeping as the desert grieves.
Photo: flickr - Gary Hayes
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