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  • There is something about the pinks at sundown in the desert, the way the dry sky envelops the fence posts. There is something about the hidden whisper-kiss nature of pink, bringing atmosphere to the desert grasses.

    There is something about the way the mauve goes down.

    You feel the sky be low, yet immense.

    You feel the earth feel boundless.

    You feel the weather systems like biometric psychos, just on the edge of the frame of intending. It's about soft and hard, and structure.

    There is a kind of dusk hydraulics, moving dry through the pipes and stems of the universe. Crackle, it says, implosion, it says, one per cent humidity, it says, bring me one ember it says, and I will bring you a raging disaster. It says this with calm, and we watch the pink as a hued tonal, deep in the lowering. End of day. The fence.

    You feel the distinction, sharply outlined as if in copper and hot red between the word lonely, and the word lonesome.

    The word in the desert at sundown is lonesome.

    Lonesome at sundown, it is.


    (Photo by Susan, Nevada, c. 1994)
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