There is nobody to leave you in the sands,
Where you leave yourself and the range of thoughts flows freely,
And the 20 mules are stuffed in some museum--their final gift
There is no place to clean your wounds
Just sand to stunt the bleeding
The Paiute, drunk off cactus and smoking themselves into oblivion
They understood that the desert has no need for sadness
the desert IS sadness.
Searching for what? Food? It's all spiked and scared of you out here--
No love on this plane, just in the shape of things
The nick of *****
The bleed of seed
The dream
Eternity.
