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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