Deep into December I feel like this
A little less sanguine late in the day,
Languishing, expectation by expectation, ungiven.
The sun shines fervently over the pluperfect desert.
Space beckons all-too-often. The mesas and mountains,
Their rough, staid, icy silence exuberant
With frilly wildflowers sown in ancient black tuff.
Then I long for the city, outré life, the way
Country crooners once pined for the road, inspired lovers,
Raw clay since plowed into dense-dark cloisters,
Hidden caches, rapped, hermetic streets, drags sans trees,
Under a canopied skyscraped sky, émigrés all
From the sun— that life, crackly, dour, in-
different, so full of its own resonant self.