Even the Mojave has plenty––dunes
moon-white in moonlight, indigo space
so full of stars they powder it like tunes
from planet radio, prayers from Grace
Cathedral, Shao Lin, Tibet. Perkins sells
desert seeds, outwitting water-storing lizards
whose tail-flick paths zigzag electrical
blue, and sand-camouflaged mice with built-in
backpacks. He’s frugal, selling a drought garden’s
worth in biscuit-colored, canvas sacks––
like lava bits, pepper motes, avid dust.
Here, he can hear a snake ripple the slough
of wheat-colored sand, a hawk riding updrafts.
He banks on the given: un-owned, shriven.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 18, Issue 2.
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