Powdery grey dust
cushions dusky mules
snooping past coyote haunts
thatched juniper trails.
High, pink-winged smudges
billow puffed-up plums
branding hoo doo pillars
domed cobalt shadows.
Pinon scented wind
coaxes lacey orbs
whistling through cholla groves
fringed lightning fingers.
Slurry glass droplets
moisten velvet buttes
weaving wet moire threads
veined silk shot blankets.
You, Me and Virus Too
Since laying around for nearly a year
preening my space, devouring fear,
at home, now in situ, self-exodus rules
turning me inward, seeking the blues.
Splayed wide with a turquoise dream of down under
is my newest best friend, a bed nest to slumber
firm as cold fudge, a stiff whipped meringue wonder.
Binge everything powers our daily agendas.
Mindful consuming? Do we need a Miranda?
Like Pac-Man devouring the latest arrivals
or branch blasting Audrey seeking survival,
the sensational grubbing for real and fiction
from a bubble of screens somehow seems insufficient
to satiate our compulsive, misguided missions.
If you’ve had it or haven’t, just look to the stars,
play special numbers or scratch offs in cars.
Vague tea leave predictions along with your mask
should keep you through summer until your new task
as the country’s Poet Laureate of Covid Affairs,
you’ll mix it up anew with a Zoom bunch of squares,
tanned ghosts from the past sporting blue and pink hair.