Dead Language

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In the dry season
cacti blossom
so do I.
I know most
prefer the rain
but, what I love is dead
ness, it lies
below the leaf
empty trees, skeletal
grasses, lizard’s scepters.
What I love is silence
which of course
does not exist, but almost
now when there is
no grazing earth’s
broken bones
erupt from decimated
flesh. The dirt, dust, pulverized
years, sand made of glass
blown in inert fires
within the molten womb.
Boulders jut, jagged molars
cursive swallows,
scrawled horizons,
speak in tongues.
Profound tones rise
in elephant phrases
morse code
broadcast through the soles
of naked contact.

© 2013 Abby Smith, Writer

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