He said sometimes
she crossed the line,
the one she stood
seven hours behind.
He might not even mind, if she'd only
used her head
and stopped looking
for danger to take her to bed.
"In his head," he had lost
her in that abyss
of sandy red shores
and rocky cliffs
to a daunting dancer
who led heedless
feet to spin,
to stumble,
to slip
into the abrasive arms
of a hundred junipers laid dormant
by winter's
immaculate fingertips.
She assured him she would
not be put to rest
in that radiant wasteland
of oblivious sentiment
and sediment
He laid awake
that night, writing
tragedies
on the ceiling,
while she wrote
comedies
in the sky.
