this desert comes out of itself with canyons-
goose pimples. a very long
groundless, sinking walk- twisted
convalescence seeking maturity-
but mostly legs.
this is the body that does not know what it's
doing. at night, the sky
demands attention, else it dazzles
not even its own solitude.
an arrangement of signs when there
aren't any signs
o'rion lost track of himself
without a trace of nebulous footsteps-
zero zero zero. rain arrives, whipping journey
with dried sky-flowers-
five zillion forget-me-nots.
the sky is blue for our attraction to unrequited
love and related
tragedies. its love is a slow burning
fire- too massive and
dangerous to be near.
i feel like saying no to every moment, the
reflection of the day, dried
and alas fickle, somehow compressed,
rolling in vestiges of no-man's land,
obligations to obey the heart the do-gooder, who
refuses to be taught archery-
itself, a reverberating type of bow.
it's kind of an art, something
to look at appreciatively without critically
dissecting why. it's clearly broken but
eager with new roots- an angrily tossed
ceramic that gives into wanting the best, keeping
itself alive, keeping
a trail of desert-wandering- lost,
and determined to be found
mostly legs, only appearing to disappear
in whichever windsweep.