In a surreal landscape,
The sky leaps – scraping its backbone against our goodbye.
Soft white striations mar the canvas,
The evening is as red-as-burnt-flesh,
Far and high,
A deep amethyst.
The sand is not my only impediment,
And when we rest,
Our bodies deliberate driftwood,
The white dog blurs, chasing
his own momentum, and I want
to trace your palms slowly, tasting
R. Leigh Krafft