but we live in a desert.
Wind, then, eroding
the space between who
we are and what we
are. There's no place
left to sit. Subtlety
has become dust,
fine-grained like the
landscape we have
forgotten, replete with
possibility. Now it has
hardened into act.
The remainder penetrates
our breath. The sun
drinks. We cough, hold
hands over our eyes.
There's nothing left
to see, is there?
