A Weeping Saguaro

April 13, 2010
I, leaning from the very cliff
which my boots, lacerations and all,
have wholly adhered
do comply that—atop this crag,
like the wind warring against my back,
like the evening Saguaros
and their tapestry of verdant, delicate flowers—
I am a natural being
though not natural enough
to aid this world’s endeavors.

The colors melt, meld, and evoke a passion
as perennial, in mind, as my perpetual visits
to this strange, perfect otherworld
beneath early moonlight, opaque and lovely,
and an outbreak of roused bats;
I, alone, have only ever felt love
in this dusty locale
where the ignorant, machined enemies
of nature are nonexistent.

Days, months, decades
spent under encapsulating atmosphere
with nowhere to breathe, no place to yell
under raw sun, that alien star,
searing myself raw, under my own rule,
until I am nature’s, and my own, feeble foe.

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