Desert Dreaming

The desert has broken trains
of thought—
as if my mind had been robbed
by bandits.

The desert haunts my sleep:
scorpions crawl across
my face with spindly arachnid
legs. Mottled brown lizards
shit on spotted gray rocks.

Maybe because this city
has sucked me dry—again—
I need a place
dehydrated: where things
nourish themselves on sunlight
and through layers of sand.
Maybe because the desert
is empty and I am far
too full.
Of plans, of heat,
of fear, claustrophobia.

I am dreaming of the desert.
Broad, open places
like oceans on land, or forestless
space—alien worlds for my
mountain-eyes.