17 September, 2007

The purity of solid-colored skies

mock the stripes of evening, casting

shame on the way my blood pulses

(unevenly) in thin veins.

Where I sit, alone

camels glide, journey in the

snapping mist

(the smoke of their breath

the fog from the rolling dunes) distantly

the sky stretches over

and within me, the stillness spiteful

of personal deserts.

I am taut (and I have barely learned

to welcome the embrace)

my skin, the brittle slices,

a thousand shards of moisture from

shallow pores.

I spit, the god

of another bitter oasis

More miracles for my collection.