Weeds are sleeping. High Noon. The Desert opens its dry mouth.
Legs wobble over loose gravel, barely stirring the lethargic,
The arid land has an asphalt tongue. I sit on it.
I melt to it.
A plastic shadow. Dried up. Destroyed
by the sun. Liquidated
by a watching light.
Red bugs have armor. Guardian’s of flight. Protection
from the land.
and teeth. I evaporate.
An old actor rocks on a blue porch. He doesn’t
know the desert like I do. Never has sunk in its smoldering
August sand or been whipped by flaming winds.
Protected by shadows that do not melt, shadows
that create the desert.
Whiskey in hand.