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May 27, 2008
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Facing the Desert

Her hair was a dust devil,
matching her eyes when
            she left

Arizona.  I saw the dust once before,
the wind sending it in circles
to chase its tail like a dog

across the I-10.  Coming home
from Tucson
I want to spit on the yellow grass
until she comes back.

              (The smell of rain is a cousin’s wedding
               that I go to yearly only to remember
               they still exist.)

The rain died
her hair darker,
            black
as the dust grew red.

The streetlights blur
and I trace her cheekbone along the light poles
that disappear
as the rain gets heavier.  
The water hides in cacti,
       we can’t remember
            a lover’s lips.

She’s in California,
where the grass is made green
and the beach keeps everything wet.

'Facing the Desert' by =Drunken-Splice

:icondrunken-splice:


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