My paradise is hollowed out.
I dwell within a famished basin
populated by the purpled crowns
of Russian thistle. This sage desert
is a dry throat and I am a whole nation
in my dry mouth. The summons
to reside here, a paper testament.
From the rock spouts rock and no
people and the wide blue sky
does not hold my attention. Constantly
I am bewildered by the nothing
germinating from the landscape.
I thought I would own the visual field
instead, this abandonment on my tongue.