OceanographyMatt W Miller
Road crawls on dusty through the cracks
between toes, between fingers, between
the thing that was us and what has become
our presence in a soft asphalt August.
Don't forget the daughters, you said,
before there were daughters in that curl
of water where waves whiplash the land.
And this is when your hands witch the air.
By definition this should be the great
afternoon of our argument but I am alone
in a red ‘72 Buick that leathers in the nose
like skin left behind from a dream.
And the ocean is attacking the teeth
of the desert trying to slap metal
from the highway. Just give me a little
taste of your ass it says, speaking
only when I tell it to again. I am going out,
giving tongue to sea dunes and sage brush.
I silk the red scarf around my waist,
too vain to tie knots around my eyes.
Awakening the Dragon
Self-Portrait with Head and Hands
Godfrey, Help Me Rest
After Learning Too Much About Oshún
Matt W Miller
pilgrim (were you the where)
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Something Other Than Whole
A Very Small Stain
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