Eternity cupped by
ten-thousand palms,
in Nevada.
Joy high, blinking
number four gaslight
traffic neon.
Mouths laid open—
80 miles to Denver
like a dead letter,
addressed to
Black Rock City.
Mountain suburban
with skis lined up— as
fence posts.
I saw your ghost, walking
along the edges
of this city— and
my hair looks
a little
less thick, in this
hostel bathroom mirror.
Another world,
behind that Colorado sand—
red, hobo street modern,
wild flower edgeless; and
another temporary face
turned and tilted
toward a burning sky.

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