footprints collect dust and wind
themselves down, southwest.
sprawl the dusted land trampled
dead. navajo, arid, barren, are we
there yet? no, it’s not quite time.
there is still a pulse,
a rising chest, a sign of life.

back home,
it’s humid, but you can still breathe
without the sand-infested breeze.
this is droughtful, anything that moves
remains unsure. down here,
life is at the bottom of the food chain,
and sun-blistered valleys ascend
to concealing mountaintops.

a broken verse in key
with a withered crop,
cracking at the stalk; lips
are parched and splitting
at the edge. ballooning out
and breaking pledge to the barrier
between a dry and splitting throat.

urge, yearn, evoke
a drop of sympathy, sorrow;
empathy forged into regrets,
as the constant of inconsistency
the nourishment shortly burrows
and embeds itself into the sands.