Lightness, High Desert
By Ruth Thompson
Here heat rides the horse of light, vaults
sun to sun, a glare that slams the eyes shut,
licks from morning's skim of clouds, cools
to coal in shadow. I forget how deadweight
darkness lies grave with unshed heat, nightlong
pall of wrestler sweat. In my tinder carapace
of borrowed roof and wall, quickness flies me
clean. Nothing adheres, even the sticky heart.
Blithe and volatile as sunlight on the morning
table, in dreams I sheer to grassland, burning.
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