In a dream—bereft and bonethin,
the angel of my soul
slithers forward,
ash-eyed,
breathless,
and looking desperate-
ly—not for me,
for my
cunning, or my
artistry! here in this desert; but just
for a place
to stow herself
safely—until the next
morning comes
to calm
the stinging winds,
and embalm
with its tender clemency
the cold nightwounds
of her steep-sloping
exhaustion.
But over
and over,
on each clandestine dune
and at every single arcane pyramidal
structure
she comes to,
it's the
same abysmal story—so sorry,
No Vacancy.
