"The desert bears only a scathing sun, and nothing more."
"What about mirages?"

Friday, September 24, 2010


On a gritty bathroom floor
I spot a busted fly.
Wings crumpled,
like egg cartons and
legs broken,
like slum street windows.

I watch it
a moment longer
as it twitches
and life sputters
like the engine
of a 1994 Toyota Previa.

I stand,
button my pants,
and leave it
to sputter some more
on a gritty bathroom floor.

1 comment:

"Write with our backs to the wind and our faces to the hard, bleaching sun."