where the writers are
Middles of Deserts

No entry, no door, no
clean line around
the drifts that twist
and send sand flying in the wind.
The extreme comes only
when you’re in,
well into the basins
floored with salt
and copper flecked rocks,
when temperatures
spike and plunge
and creosote lives long.
Think pronghorn, think hawk,
think of red dirt.
You can bask now:
water-like light
shining hard
in that wash of unwalked land.