Make do your chariot, sunny blind of the reflected rock. The cholla’s own yellow takes air as its hue. Submerge. The drill of the bird will wake you, or the tree resisting the beak. (Calculate, but sleep at nine, wake at six, still home, still eastern daylight time.) Bugs roused to be breakfast, then your feet on the floor, toast toasting, water boils in the pot. A day, awake.
Body soaped in the tub, soaked in the soap, smoke from the candle, steam from the heat. All stirred in the room. Sand greets like a fox in the garage spews dust from the saw. Coconut oil in the cup, coffee ground, water hot from the pot, and a sleepwalker stirring seeds. Find your way.
The park like a state like an island in a drought, ocean missing, missed, boulders building instead. Lavender smells better surrounded by dust and singeing sun. Show off your purple, flower, if you grow. If you grow bring your body to the land.
S. TOURJEE 