the desert sky at dusk
the line of light before sleep waves his hand
wind crawls in then runs out,
shutting all doors but one
the rosy tips of your child’s fingers
the blood of a berry on a napkin
the desert sky at dusk
the line of light before sleep waves his hand
wind crawls in then runs out,
shutting all doors but one
the rosy tips of your child’s fingers
the blood of a berry on a napkin