The curvature of the earth

    Photo by Daniel Schuleman / North by Northwestern
    It’s an unforgiving plain, the desert,
    Where the arena is bounded by 
    Impassive mountains a dry green
    Soured to acidic black.
    The saguaros stretch towards 
    The sky, streaked with clouds
    And bearing down on loose dirt,
    Like old arthritic fingers
    Frozen in mid-flowering.
    The brush grows low and minute,
    Gnarled by continual effort,
    Deprivation—progress rolls slow
    In the desert, it encompasses lives,
    And is measured in epochs.
    The brush gathers in labyrinthine clusters,
    And sits and stares at the ever-arcing sun
    As buzzards circle overhead
    In uncertain rhythms,
    Searching for the deceased,
    Or the ever-dying.


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