Desert Dew
by A.I. Christensen
I could imagine
the dew before the sun with you—crisp
droplets clinging
to each grass blade, bending,
the sun casting light
over Eastern hills—a fishing line,
nightcrawler landing
on grass, each blade clung to by those
crisp
dew
droplets,
and the blades bending ever so slightly.
The nightcrawler stretching,
flexing
into the soft earth.
But in the desert,
the morning sun sees
cacti tighten
their stomachs, bristles sharp—
no nightcrawler. This sun is no fisherman, but
a hunter,
a killer.
Here we perch
boulder beneath
us—rough
on your flesh and mine.
And the Hunter diffracts
over the valley, golden
brushstrokes against the sandstone giants,
rounded, bulbous.
Maybe, if we hurry,
our sun will only attack the cacti
and the rocks—they can take it,
as they have.
And we will be safe
in the city,
the house—
the couch,
carpet between our toes.
I could imagine
the dew before the sun with you—crisp
droplets clinging
to each grass blade, bending,
the sun casting light
over Eastern hills—a fishing line,
nightcrawler landing
on grass, each blade clung to by those
crisp
dew
droplets,
and the blades bending ever so slightly.
The nightcrawler stretching,
flexing
into the soft earth.
But in the desert,
the morning sun sees
cacti tighten
their stomachs, bristles sharp—
no nightcrawler. This sun is no fisherman, but
a hunter,
a killer.
Here we perch
boulder beneath
us—rough
on your flesh and mine.
And the Hunter diffracts
over the valley, golden
brushstrokes against the sandstone giants,
rounded, bulbous.
Maybe, if we hurry,
our sun will only attack the cacti
and the rocks—they can take it,
as they have.
And we will be safe
in the city,
the house—
the couch,
carpet between our toes.