You curse the desert

Or maybe it does the same

To you. It curses you with

A lifetime of its arid, rolling

Yellow sand pushed down

Into your seizing lungs

Plunging down your throat

In gulping, acrid breathes.

You curse the desert and its

Wife the sun. You curse it

Because its invaded your blood,

Like the parasite clinging to

A used needle. You curse it

Because each morning you

Wake and stare into the mirror,

What you see is a blasted waste

Of fierce, thorn heavy bushes

And scaly reptiles who spit

Blood with fear and rancor.

You see it in the planes of your

Face, in your muscles and deeply

Buried bones. You see this curse

And think of only survival where

There should be none.

You close your eyes and wash

Your face and feel your dry

Skin peel away like fine grains

Of dust.