We called it farm
The desert called it visitor
Cracked dirt
Red as a split lip, torn
By screams of thirst
Coughing dust
Plough furrowed coffin dust
On desiccated crops
Of sheep bones
Divine oracle
Of Christmas parched
Clouds, just rumpled refugees
Dragging wisp-haired kin
In procession across the sky
Tearless in search
Of more hopeful places

Bryson Thomas