Put the horizon back on its hinges.
Provoke a fiddler crab into a porcelain-clawed
war for control of the moon. Light inches
toward lighter fluid. Resist the urge to prod
the miles of cattle fence that grow tiny red hands.
Don’t pattern the salt flats with tire tracks.
You aren’t in a position to make demands
of the desert. Look: a blue-lidded man reacts
to his own fossil walking out of his life.
Don’t look: stingrays swimming up and down
the flooded highway. A lizard midwife
with no source tale is waiting to drown
you. Cut your breaks. When you run out of air,
the desert will drive you almost anywhere.
2026