I want to live
in the negative space
of your landscapes, recede into
shadows on the horizon soft like
an echo,
a ghost note.
Desert mother,
I see you cloistered in
your Model A
in a swarm of bees,
painting fever dreams in
gold and ochre—
I want to be still. I
am a lens,
setting fires in the sand
with insolent focus.
Teach me to be
an aperture, quiet
and clean
as bleached bones,
speaking only to water.
