Cyanogen

frothy dumpling clouds
afloat in chalcedony broth
taste of almost-winter

white-ass pronghorns chew
witchgrass sprays to nub
and water closes my eyes

is it
the ache of falling sun
or
the ache of falling summer

that pulls desire from my heart
and leaves it pulsing
                                          breathless
along the boundless blue horizon

 

© s rogers 5 October 2009

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