Dry Wash

Late shadow, long dark veil, a man-shaped hole stretched out across the grass, behind the light another turning, a winter’s heart will never last.

O’ January, cast me out to high Aquarius, where I might become some thing other then a bone; to another moon, silver in tranquility and burnished, with a wish made of ashes; this house of mirrors.

Corona; we are lost and lonely bottles, hobble-skirts and Celadon, marooned just north of Barstow, two old saints embossed in glass, where forever we will languish, in the Valley of the Cupped Hand of God.

o O o

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