A
roadmap of the lungs,
a slight
exaltation resulting in
burning
clothes, a broken ankle—
the
kind of thing you get from
hitchhiking
a desert come nightfall.
Delighting
in the scrape of a wing
against
the sand, smothering a
guttural
growl.
The
ancients take their dreams
and
run with them, and
in
the dusty morning find
There
are no humans here.
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