And the tiny blue moths go down to the globemallow each night.
Under the sodium street lights even they are achroous strangely,
“Is that where the soul of this is,” she asked, “here at the terminus of this dream?”
The mallow stretched out, its peach-turbulent flowers molting.
"Run your fingers into the dirt. You’ll know what I mean."
Where is peace so close to the heart?
dried out balsamroot sing hollow polyphonies across the salient, gathering whispers of the dead
a late warm south wind
trembles old weathered sages in the instant before the ice returns,
and on the low rim of the sky a nighthawk careens toward Mexico too late
a she kestrel flits whitely along the edge of the escarpment in the diminished light far above us
as if swaying on impossible cordage, as if the mouldering sky were a just-unfurled sail