Haheu (qxbem)

From the furnace-lit throat of noon writhes heat, a serpent ribbed in brass. It lashes dunes into spines slick with bone dust, and I stagger, teeth bright with thirst, gagging on vowels clawed open by sun’s gospel grinding marrow into light.

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The older I get, the more I realize that peace is not found in things, but in moments.

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At twilight’s last edge, a red fox turned toward something unseen It blinked once, as if deciding Doubt is the first sign of intelligence

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The best kind of beauty is the one that doesn’t ask for attention.

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