the world ends everywhere,

here, the barren salt waste

crushed up against a desert


and everyone is everywhere also,

the standard flux of this

modern plateau. time is unfit

for progress; we have done it all-

but here where the sky is challenged, its

endless eggshell blue pierced

bright and bold by earthen metal-

all the unwieldy motion of war and




lies waiting as they create

one false gleaming snow-shadow.

the sotto voce vein of truth

wends its way back

through the desert to

where a little american

is hanging up his phone,

taking off his shirt,

and dreaming about winter.