Meditations on Desert Rain

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I intended to spread a layer
of me beneath the mimosa

tree before I burn in the face
of brave plumage that adapts

and laughs at sandy thrusts
like begonias or bougainvillea

but intended is not what makes
it happen. Everything's knuckled

by the hotwind and my no body,
riddled with enough rain to smear

mud down the windowpane, stickies
the goodskin of a peach grown

on borrowed water and too much
light. This may be a private grief,

the color of bruised flesh, soggy
and a little rotten on my tongue.



Created: Apr 21, 2014

Tags: poetry

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