Deserted, As a Desirable Dryness

How much more sunshine
can a single hairy-headed 

man chant? One more word
to the skies and the blue

has to start to feel 
wise. Each ray dies

when it touches the end
of the hand. That is why

I wear gloves. I like to have
these figments alive,

sketched by the fingers
that feed me more 

in the way
of words.