DiaBLOGue

Bread aisle for tortillas          an infant’s hand around my finger                    sold-out souls                              sharing beans and lentils                                        in Babylon, but I’ve been warned, I think.          Sand spitting in the wind                    sun-faded advertisements for                              lip balm modeled…

I am religious
the way small desert towns
are named after water;
eleven or twenty worn buildings,
brown hills, dust.

No Celestial room has ever compared
to the stalk of yellow bluestem held in my son’s teeth
three-quarters of a mile into a Sunday afternoon walk,
      feathered seeds dancing with every step.

Were they fake news? Etched
on tin? Did the boy prophet
really find them sequestered