fingers worm their way
into blood warm sand,
roots looking for a ghost
in the skin of the earth.
Already on my knees
I might as well pray.
The sparseness of life,
a modest chaos of
background noise, the
slightest chance to be heard.
the hard edge of hope
pulls from the flesh
a small offering of willful bleeding,
moisture to the desert,
so the ears of a dry god
may bloom in this night.
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