Chris Crittenden

the sky burns,

a fit of blue octane enabled by sun.

every particle of sand

is the remnant of a dinosaur

who cannot bellow, cannot eat,

cannot have a face

without a microscope.


in april, storms come like katanas,

leaving bloody flowers.

countless years of fighting these liquid weapons

have left the desert deformed,

wounded by gulches that never heal.


this is a place where tarantulas

give birth to wasps;

where mammals are fugitives

tracked by reptile pores.


somewhere in a hidden corner

of the most desolate mesa,

hieroglyphs speak of maize

while heat preens the eyebrow

of a buried monument.