there is no hope-filled nimbus
rising black and pregnant before us
to shade the verdant green
that spreads like an illusion
along the betraying earth.

there is only the baking blue sky
with its dour, ominous eye
that scours the cracked land for moisture –
a thirsty lover forcing sand-paper rough kisses
across the unwary, tender breasts
of a spent and empty vessel
yielding nothing but themselves;

and the shadows are too sharp
against an over-exposed backdrop;
so we close ourselves up,
lie exhausted above hot sheets,
wary that in touching one-another
we may combust
then fall to dust

until a rain restores us whole to one-another.

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