The
desert gleams seamlessly, the invisible
edge of a
properly sharpened knife, drag it slow
across
your thumbnail and feel the catch.
I watch
the heat climb against the current,
returning
to the refined truth of a purely
empty
sky.
With
circular motion grind against the clock, an
impossible
repetition of lessening. The stone wearing
into an
organic curve oily fingers caress. Like reading
the decay
of a radio isotope or the meaning of a mountain
to the
evening breeze. The long shadows of nighthawks
are miles
away and still as hungry. The earth is fickle
and
sometimes curves away.
The
creases on the note you left are not hinges so
it stays
folded in my wallet. A certificate of
authentication;
some kind of proof I was wealthy
once. I
have faith the gold will not blur or the edges
will not
thin into air. There is a curl of steel that
must be
broken off. Drag it along the strop until it
is keen.
Drag it long, it will be keen
.
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