chased me across Mexico.
I never saw them;

strong fingers, tight as the skins
they caress, keeping time,
but recognized the rhythm
on linger waves of heat
that run

along the desert
through midnight and up
my back like a snake
parting the land,
no flash, just a reflection
left in the melted sand

that fails to recapture
its former glory.

Lost in August,
outside of Ocampo,
the desert dares, taunts,
and tempts, but in the end
only conceals

with its dull thunder
lightning being born.

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