The tent fly
flapped
in the
Arizona dream.

I fell out
of the door.
Saying,
"I should be
dead soon."

My bleeding feet
stained the
brown sugar sand.

And God
was everywhere;
in my cuts.
In me.
In us.

And God
was nowhere;
absent-hearted-
blood-kissed-
consciousness.

My hands gripped
at the cheeks
bordering thin lips.
I kissed the
Arizona dream
as if it were
my own.

If it were my own.
If you were my own.