desert gasses
rise and
meet the
burgeoning sky,
blue glass, light
heat
trapped in
new mexican winters
sweep the
heartfelt heroes
landing with icy fingered
hands, sanded down
blown flat
and clear...
What color is the space
between what is
and what will never be?
There arn't enough blues
to grace these
places
for all the cerulean
and eggshell
clouds
for all the worlds
cocoa and bittersweet
vapor trails
dithered and diffident
from a high, high place
grasped and swirled
around the vortex
of earth, its guilty
faint breath the
cast off smoke
of dead centuries
in and out
of the starlight
across gridded and golden planes
stratified by diamond hunters
in veins of vanilla lightning
streaking overground brown
earthen reminders, untoward
endless angles on
the dark arcane...
atmospherics divine
oceans from the gas of time
carve waves into halves
and deftly blinded
in the arid nights
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