I'm not sure I can sleep
with the ghosts.
Laced
frostbite and heatstroke
fall down their wrists,
draped and drowned—
waking waters
dew over my eyelids.
In a rush of momentary
panic you've splintered—
static in your hair.
I turn the electric tinge to my mouth
with a thoughtful kiss—
I cannot find the name for it now.
Let our hair be cold in the sunrise.
We could lay our bodies
into the quiet God
at the smalls of our backs.
Foothill penstemon stains
feather into something else.
Saffron star-spots trickle into the dirt.
Surely I am tired.
I can feel
the petrichor, thick
as the mountains beneath the snow.
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