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  • You write yourself down into the wild wood, and then the moon comes up by day.

    One of the sea, two of the window, three of the messy wild hair.

    You write down into the hair, and down further into the bunny mutants.

    You want to talk about chalkboards and photo albums, souvenirs, dried rose petals, photographs you took of ten thousand dried rose petals, but today is not the day.

    Today is a day in the mind of the desert. Today is a day in the mind of the sand cannons.

    Today is a day in the heart of the war world. In the soul of the overgrazed and the overwanting.

    You write yourself down into the dark dawn, yet it is day. The dunes are in your mind. Though you are at sea level, it is the high mountains which claim you.

    What has become of us earthlings?

    We are living in shadows, we live backwards, out of our bodies.

    Touch that mud. It is real.

    Mud walking.

    No more paupers.

    Levancy. Couchancy.

    The old land words.

    Only run the possessions you have standing and sleeping. There is no need to graze into overgrazing. We are on the edge of the territories.

    Only run the possessions you have....we harvest sand, paper money, failed sky.

    The failed sky is a holy blue. The blue is a territory. When all colour goes from the desert rocks, the blue appears like a monster, a guardian angel in the blue wolf shades.

    We harvest the tethered berms. The shapes of huts like secret domes. The closed knowledge of the draped jute shapes.

    I climb the impossible sand in the valley of death.

    The sheep come down from Leviticus Mountain. They might be scapegoats I see, come down to the still muddy pools to drink.

    We shear them, we comb them, we boil the wool, we apply the ancient dyes to their wool, coral as if from lost seas when once these deserts were gryphon strange, the deepest coral sea, we apply the berry blood, we apply the beetle stain, we make a boiled wool jacket.

    The sand is singing.

    Whales, tubas, the cello's lament, the baritone hum of the rubbing of grains. The sand is moving across itself in day stars.

    It is too cold for faces. I zip up the boiled coral wool.

    I am visible but masked.

    And a second moon comes up by day.


    (photo by D., of Susan, in Death Valley)
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