Desert
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.