by Sharon Mollerus

As the last hour is emptied out,

the canteen uncorked and spilled,

drops of water bubble over the thirsty sand,

sucked into the earth’s gullet.

Or, as the tight desert breath

squeezes through vise of time and place,

it pins each discrete thing, living or rock,

to the rind of the earth, captive of lethe.

Or, rather—freewheeling abandon:

swimming in wind,

breathing in birthwater,

falling through a fissure,

down a tunnel,

to a hidden crypt.

Cracked open like an egg,

the shimmering crystal sheen

cradles a pregnant sac of promise.