Each To His Desert
We emerged from our wooden cave, the shed with flaking siding propped up by concrete blocks, each, passing by, laying down a song sheet: a paper oblation of harmony, absolutions of the mind turned out from its cacophony and thick-tongued worry, into night. The steps down over shivering boards were nails in time, plodding into the sun receding from our faces, while the open wind surprised our prickling arms with cold. While we watched with halos of paper-thin glory, the cup of the sun poured out into the pines, and we shivered in our T-shirts. The embers of the day have died, plodding down to dust and ash in the darkness that covers all I climb the stairs. Beneath the stars, each like a prayer, for I do not know what names other souls see above; each constellation a hermit, praying in a desert all his own.