03: Apollo’s

Each day the star draws closer; in honor

         of his arrival, games have been declared

for the competition of his heat.

As the sun arrives: mountains scatter past the hills,

opening a valley colosseum - where the shades of

life spike for survival, their petals

rolled into swords,

every inch a truthful matter of life - leaning for the light.

         All man's make is the color of rust, exposure, fuscous;

         they have built nothing to endure; but

         the desert is blushing hues, bruised, roiling, golden rod, the sun

dead clouds. Like stone,

the wash of that light,

the shellac of heat; where the sun goes down

nothing catches fire, but warmth is finally felt,

released in exhaust,

         a sigh

understood in absence by my bones and this place,

decorated by the fallen ribs of Saguaro