---

the glowing iron wheel
had made its way
across the sky
crushing
everything
in its
path

i sit doubled over
my forehead
in rivulets
from the
furnaces
its passage
had stoked

clouds like
dusty dirt ruts
curving into
saguaro spiked
hills
to the west

crescent moon
a faint slice
like a
glowing
cattlebrand

the cicadas
still whirr
on
and
on
and
on


7 PM
and it is
still
98 degrees

and the
ghosts of
cowpokes
who
died the trails
still ride
their bony ponies
on their endless
road
into
the

sun


soulsurvivor
(C) 8/17/2015