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.
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 11:23 AM UTC
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.
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