Vol 10, Num 1 :: 2011.01.14 — 2011.01.27
In the plane, the city goes on forever.
When we land, a cold cup of horchata
From an old woman with warm, honeyed skin.
Cacti spring up in the metropolis.
We’ll feast like kings on the roof of your house
And taste the sweet night air of the desert.
Here, canyons run wide to flummox the mind
And Mt. Humphreys balds beyond the tree line
So we’ll climb a mountain somewhat smaller
And feel, as if for the first time, the sun.
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