To mirror the desert, you must wear away.
I learned this on a long walk, long ago.
My skin went dark past bronze. My hair grew dust.
Sun washed my clothes into rock-colored gauze.
When only the wet of my eyes and mouth
could reveal me—suddenly bighorn
bimbled cliffs. Suddenly lions
eased among the creosote. I learned
to be gentler when shaking scorpions
from my boots. To mirror this desert
you need an edge you trust
to crumble, need to feel
each blooded life surviving desert
as your kindred. Desert will pit you
against winds you cannot withstand
by standing. Desert will topple all your light
with greater light. Desert will swallow
whole your pilgrims. Look how alien
you are—I say your glare
is no protection and less art. I say
desert (fiercer art)
will not abide reflection.