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Monday, May 27, 2013

More of Yourself


the morning laboratory stirs
the bluing moon with a red brush
a coyote’s yelp stretches
between the centuries, a prediction
of silence is the desert’s own reward, the fire

roads zig their old canticles
of saws and cracks through the saguaros
juggling—bloom, flickers,
blossom again, flycatchers, bloom,
fruits, and savage stillness

time washed ribs play
like sonoran flutes, they touch
the heavens, not with music
but the instruments themselves, asymmetrical
deeper than utterances of paradise

the Carnegiea gigantea are throwing
their weight around the world, peculiar
how they will know
the ending, while we
misread their scars

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