The dense, sour scent of sulfur lingers.
With each blink I see the smoke, the grey
clouds reflected in your eyes. I see

the emptiness of meadows, the thickets
of young trees suffocated by unyielding
elders. I see the cracked leather mud

of creek beds sprawling out, ripping
across earth, the culling music of wild
grass, reed, wheat, straw silenced

by the last waterless wave. I see red
in Indian Paintbrush and blue in Monks-
hood blown out by stale desert breath.

I see old bones buried, bones
weathered thin, white bones just cleaned
by horseflies—all cracked like the mud—

soon will be mud. I see the dark, shiny
recesses of black in your eyes—lifeless,
like the polished barrels of the shotgun.

I now see the world as you did.

10/28/2005

Author's Note: Found another gem creepin' in the archives

Posted on 10/29/2009
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