Sunday, April 26, 2015

April 26



The drylands don’t attract me;
I grew up under dark evergreens
and over water—sheets of it,
spreading like silver foil to the
horizon. From the air it looked
solid and even when my father
put his small plane down
on it, the floats kept us from
disappearing under the shining
mantle. Flat, like sand, but not
empty, not that kind of place
where souls and thirsts are exposed.

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