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by Timothy Russow, Jr.

Now and here with no variation | the twitch makes you want more | blossoms and unfolds like origami | a martial art | the current and pulse turn |

This desert like walking headfirst into a hairdryer | rolling dunes as blanket upon blanket | sand and soil and scorpion | smoothing out like pumice | the cliché of dust informed and boiling |

You know the computer models suggest we are all going to die | if heart failure doesn’t get you first | we are stewards not saviors | and fetch only those frozen and lightheaded | glaring with jaws agape | the other |

Home is where you place it | like a small bird bouncing branch to branch pecking at the seed you left in the feeder | to flutter off at the slightest commotion | then return with friends all the same | and yield |