It seems we have lost our thin lining called
conviction, New Mexico’s calling
like a doodle bird and O, my love,
we all wave our hands goodbye
shadows form in the narrow streets.

Dry eyes staring at canvas, desert skies hang high above,
her strokes are articulated, her hand
flapping like a finch caught in its shadow:
the plan was to kill two birds with one thing
and strike them down within three seconds
one, two, three…
What can’t one do with a well-developed smile?


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