Gene Fowler on the Other Side of the
NIGHT DESERT
Sun glare left over
out of the dream,
street lamp
framed in the window.
Roll over, put my hand on
a moist haunch
- sprouts an arm
to pat me
dismissingly.
Mist around the moon.
Rain tomorrow.
Mist around the street lamp.
Rain any minute.
Sun glare burns gristle out of sockets;
desert sand shifts,
flowing
in slow motion currents
through flesh.
Cup a warm breast.
Evoke a shove.
Keep changing. If you lie down
among the visions
you'll never get up.
They'll find bleached principles
along the roadside
or in a gully
miles from any road
or on gritty flatness where even winds
twist down into gasps.
The last white bone
catches the glint of light -
moon - lamp - sun.
The roadside drifts around
always pointing
another
way.
© Copyright Gene Fowler 2005