To touch
The canyon sides
To race the moon
Below its rim
Or to bear
A heart so carved
To beat the rapids
Rushing
An alluvial suspension
Of the painted desert
That was to come
Is a cause
Way remembered
But too picturesque
For laddered sands
To hold
A drinking gourd
Can mimic a well
Until its sound
Is empty
Then it becomes
A drum
Calling forth
A lizard thirst
Tom McGlynn
copyright 2014
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