Tuesday, March 1, 2022


A small figure in the wind
And winter sun of desert
Mesas scrabbles in the sand.

It is burying something.
What is that it’s burying?
Now it’s scurrying away,

Having left hardly a trace
Of disturbance in the dirt,
Save a scrawled curse. Don’t read it.

Leave it. Don’t be tempted. Don’t
Dig it up. It’s not for you.
It’s for later. It’s all us.

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