Night slips from my vision grainy
as we make our way up the dirt path.

I let myself be held by sandstone
harboring a prehistoric sea.

Dryness tunnels my nostrils,
could clear every longing from me,

if I were as mutable and eager to be changed
as I say. There are days I beg to be left,

to see what I’ve been withholding.
Night knows I’m unlikely to leave first.

In florid glow, lulled to an almost-sleep,
the stirring morning sifts me.