Poem: South of Stedman

 

South of Stedman

 

evening falls

on the brittle flesh of the desert,

a beige and shadow

of dismembered ants breaking into period marks,

the crinkles and ridges guiltless now,

no orange, gold or blood,

the conquests, once shouldered on chant and sword,

slouching across a tarantula of dunes,

naked and slain.

 

a last gasp of air

wrestles with heat sung by burning rocks.

phantom fingers warn a smudged lizard

from its hornfel niche

to streak amok in wrung ceanothus,

far from the crucifix-like dust devils

whose waterless rain taunts gulch and wander,

no seeds to drink from the great sandbank drift

of the hordes.

 

 

 

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5/14 ... lots of mods after posting