Friday, April 3, 2009


Creased heaps of criss-crossed sand pucker in mournful wind to ask for chapstick.
Seeds wilt and crack, sucking on dust.
Leaves green veins sprain, splay open, wrinkle into yellowed crisps.
Stalks slouch, bowing to the weight of petal-shedding flowers.
King sun smites fields dead.
Shirtless shallow-stomached farmers fret with rakes against rows the rare storms pound flat.
Leafless trees hold their moisture, comatose, turning purple for lack of breath.
Lightning splits them in rainstorms, quicker than cheetahs, leaving layers of aqua-beads thinner than dew.
Hungry mother's tits hang low, babies suckling though there's no milk to lactate, crying with thirst when their mouths are empty.
Boys with strength enough to run catch lizards for snacks.
The rare cattle are inured to flys chewing at the corners of their eyes where mucus crusts.
The highlight of weeks of living for children is a black-winged cloud of migrators texturing the sky.
Teenagers are tired of the sight.
Fathers hope their older children will take joy in the birdshade again.
White-haired elders have learned the ants' march, a harvest that survives, and a sky split by flying feathers are the good times to enjoy.

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