What are we looking for in these parched crags and canted hollows?
A dusty red, far-flung orb
on which to sprout our wilting seeds?

                             I 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.

Down the street, the horses are restless, as a pickup truck makes its
morning rounds with bales of hay, raising clouds of dust in its wake.


A 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 chop, then nose led to a dramatic change in the complexity of the visual symbols that is sniffing for more.