Poem 7

A prostitute saw that eye once, in a rented room on the outskirts of an Arizona town.

Man, mule and body.
Cross the sands.
5 cactus to 500 miles of grain.

His foreheads sops his hat, drips to his chin, down his shirt.

The haze stings his cheeks a touch. The mule slows.

He has to cross one thousand miles of this to go where she said to go.

He wants to leave it on the sand. Soon the wind will blow, erase the eye, the skin. None will be ever found.

But his gut feels heavy just to lay his parcel down.

So through the crushed shell and dirt he drives the beast on. Once he knows its story then the stabbing burn will be gone.

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