Raffled, these ruffled feathers
of a trumpeter swan, not the mute leathery
texture of a turtle, taken in a touch
written by a referee, only a dry basin
short barks followed by a full minute
of observation; what does she see?
Castle, up on the promontory flowers bloom
in the desert, apricots, smaller fruits, dates, olives
Who knows when of the earth's powers soon
in-un-depleted, in hope what? Water, water. . .
nowhere, but drops to drink in the form of fog
that moistens the lips during the arduous hunts
Margarine taunts, migraine haunts, desert rat
barbecue we haven't been hardened to anything
but surviving as a primary aim. . .
it was just the future in an image
if fie! you build it, otherwise cometh
an uncertain lineage, as if liberation
was in that image repeated in an otherwise
identitarian crisis.
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