Untitled

The drought in my head
combs through a stormy
valley;
Dry wind and rain like sand
engrossing withered strands of grass
Weathered weeds
sprout where they were
cut down
thirty-some weeks ago,
in what I call my land of
imposed trifles
Watchmen on towers of glass
and stone
break beams like search lights
through fire-brush clouds
sushi knives slicing cleanly into
sheets of grey