Asphalt or sand, the desert swallows unceremoniously,
like a man who no longer has salivary glands but
insists on eating stale tortilla chips anyway.
What is grass? Anymore. I used to wander, susceptible
to scrapes of greenbriers and musk thistles. Now
these are absent, but the cuts come from elsewhere.
Like a pig, I am too conscious for my own good.
I would be much more content if mud-
wallowing were my highest form of inquiry.
Now, free from the pen,
I wander about,
The farmer didn’t even raise his voice.