Brunch Poem Day 2 (mine).

Mountainlust grows slimmer
halfway through the boulder
dumping ground that giants
put together to block us
from the char of Arizona.

On our first drive through this,
the westward one, we read
the radiator warnings and whet
the car’s interior with whom might
mislead us on the other side.

This time around, we’re safe
with knowledge of whose home
we’re driving  towards, and how long
we’ll linger east of these colossal rocks.
Cockeyed gobs of clothes and tools

are our boulders in the trunk
as the sun takes back its daily gift
of sight. We don’t know it but we drive
through nightlit dunes of sand. We drive
through Gila Bend. We drive

to Arizona at the speed of night,
which names us neither false
nor fast. Yep, California’s just
one big wrinkle and we are wrought
from similar, albeit tasteless, cloth.

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