Desert
This is where the moon cracks its skull
against the dry sand.
This is where shadows spread themselves so thin
that they wander lost against the white land.
This is where there is no water, where the empty wind
pushes sharply through the eyes.
This is where nothing blooms for whole seasons,
where even in winter water gathers in small drops.
This place holds the dry bones of the heart
as if they were small broken flutes. This place
holds the worn bones of the heart, and at night,
like the wind, the white moon moves through them.
Copyright © Velene Campbell 2001
