The Veil

The desert in June. It bedevils me:
an approaching paper cut. A singing stone.
Dry riverbed where quotation marks
lie down to dry. Where I escape.
Hot breeze on the back of my neck,
dogjaw dropping from the sky.
The van of paper cuts heaving.

the hour of slumber
mumbling the nights
of great proportion

Keith Polette

The Veil

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