Fire flys angle down asphalt in a sun wake
sand dries forever on faces by the almost green
of echoes owned in a pocket of
never mind
minded
Arriving in Barstow
a scorpion sky narrows
to island eyes
of coiled killed, ripe rattlesnaked.
How the desert scratches
The whiskers you keep
When the everywhere of nowhere drips
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Author:
Chris H (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: February 27th, 2023 01:11
- Comment from author about the poem: Too much time to reflect on the moments we shared. I feel the wind in a much different way as it’s breath changes from lingering to goodbye.\\\\r\\\\n
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 13
Offline)
Comments1
really like that anchoring last line
a really good poem, thanks for sharing
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