Oh, You That Are, placer of pains, of cures tight-fisted, dripping out the calm before the worm will scurry in our veins, whose burrs shove out your own too soon drooping blooms — more, You who circles with vulture’s stomach me, who stands and stumbles through the desert’s cool and star-dim sky, unknowing that the tree You roost on stands dewing steps away. Cruel Love, circle closer, let my sunburnt face feel the thin shadow of your night-blurred wing, let me pull my eyes from my sandy heap to search the blue and dappled sky’s holy lace rigid over the night air, let me fling to find that beaded bark and of that seep drink deep.
Scott Darrington is a small-town Nevada escapee currently in Utah. He has always enjoyed the rugged beauty of the high desert and the strange ways nature and civilization intersect. Besides poetry, he enjoys cats, board games, and pickleball.
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