harmony borax works

a terrible sanctity 
sanitized in salt
and poison on the
tongue — this land
lifts in the 
inhabiting wind
burns beneath 
necessity  —
below the broad arc 
of the sun
sweeping the sky
it dies  —
rusted ruins of
a century’s waste
foretaste of salt’s 
vanquish in the
sea  —
this life that 
we waltz within  — 
inspirited mineral  — animate
          am i the dirt or
          am i the wind?

coyote makes a pass
under raven’s 
black wing
full moon glides north
as rocks play dead.

This article appears in Intern Unrest.