The Prairie

The air on this prairie chases water,
Scrambling and wrestling in the brush with
The most minimal nuclei of cloud.
From the top of the bluff,
Hard work stares me down
Black eyed and stoic.
What will this land yield to me,
With my watering mouth,
My parched skin?

Light Parameters

A glowering candle highlights the shelves
Of jars
Of lethe,
Lethe so pretty and complacent,
Stitched by the spiders in a French nunnery
Out of the whitest, bleakest threads.
What lies beyond the candle’s territorial prowess?
Pearls cast before swine,
A vine of wine,
The truth artful and clandestine.