DRY CRIK Journal

lettered
upon the roofless remains
of someone’s private dream.
Small, white-walled skeletons
open to the celestial, weathered
by wind, snow and rain, just
north of two rusty relics –
round-bodied pickups
nosing the placid surface
of white skiffs and sage,
rising out of the desert
like two brown trout
kissing.

                for Jessie Smith
                for showing me another way
                home