Post stretches of strange desert fire I
chose to leave the short life as conch
shell in a miasmatic twilight, up to
the moment I will know why I made
myself go this far without noticing.
Wind blows from two simultaneous
directions, I cannot tell which one
scorches the most. I envy and miss You,
who sleeps half in a tomb decay does
not dare, half in the shivering heart of
a quasar.
Sagebrush scratches the lacquer at my
calf as I bury the conch shell- which is
just a shut, stone-dry deaf mussel but no
one will notice- in the chilly, uncouth bed
which currents wrestle by way of laughter.
In the double iris grasping the water
gloom I was giving it short life, rash that
scratches into seasons which are no more;
Come rust my joints will ache and
we will be incommensurably distant.
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