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Thursday, April 5, 2018

Stardune

I do not want to be fathomed, I tell the grains of sand
and my Spanish grammar lessons. The dunes are
seven hundred feet of loneliness. I walk toward such
loneliness, I push my feet into soft heat, consider how
much hot I can take. I can take a lot of hot. My blood
craves to see the Milky Way. I do not want to be
fathomed, says the bighorn above me, and idiot me
who raises my phone for a shot. Of course my phone
dies against its gaze. Of course its horizontal pupils
suicide into me, I a mess of violent limbs, I who am
hungry and baffled. Nos comemos una naranja, I
repeat and I must learn the funny appearance, that we eat
us  is correct. Dear naranja, I do not want to be
fathomed, I who run up the side of one dune, I who
run up cliffrocks, I who run for every pancake. But
the bighorn who stares at me from its rock. To be
looked at by another animal hurts as if I am another
animal, as if I am become the stereoscopic vision
of the valley plains, as if I am become musky patient
terror. To be looked at by another animal, to be
looked at by another animal, the country beautiful
and I so ugly inside it, such a huddled blemish in its
peaks. I am trying to get to volta, to show you the
stars, that there are ten for every grain of sand. This
world refuses to stay where it gathers. It eats it.