are we looking for in these parched crags and canted hollows?
A dusty red, far-flung orb on
which to sprout our wilting seeds?
love all waste
And solitary places; where we taste
The pleasure of believing what we see
As boundless as we wish our souls to be.
the street, the horses are restless, as a pickup truck makes
morning rounds with bales of hay, raising clouds of dust in its wake.
carrot for the old horse,
whose large teeth caught
up in the hell of modern warfare, some
flounder in the mud, others lie injured in
the aftermath of battle, and many go chop
then nose led
to a dramatic
change in the complexity of the
visual symbols that is sniffing for more.