The moon. Taking up too much of the night.
The horizon is happy without you. And so am I.
I've got enough sand to fill. The hourglass
is broken at the oasis, the palms drooping.
When I find my photograph I'll call for my horse.
Don't drain the image. I've got enough sun.
Cactus. A thorny story. And my feet
bleeding from tiny bullet holes. The ants
crawl in and out, disguised.
This is the miracle of heat. An endless ephiphany.
The sunlight picking me up by the shoulders.
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