We've thrown it like a blanket
over so many nights. You say
we sleep better under its geometric
weave, the grays and tans, the woolen
off-whites as if we pulled Sonoran
sand over our shoulders, settling
into each other, knees and haunch,
the awkward elbow, as if goats
on triangle hooves found their way
down charcoal canyon walls in the dark
into this pattern. Simple grazing,
lip tooth tongue searching perennial
grasses, the sufficient forbs.
Someone wove all this for us
in abstract. By daylight
you'd swear, there's not a blade
of living color in this scheme.
But every night we settle under it
and dream.
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