Dear Ovid,

Tied down and impatient for vultures,
I look surgically across uninhabited land.
Hours later and the horizon is as clean
as a hummingbird’s jerk. I curse the plane
I jumped from, my porcelain ankles.
Cacti bowl shadows of mud at my pathos.
By nightfall it all still matters, just less.
A shepherd in the form of turtle
muses that this grassless terrain is heaven.
I say something that smells like onions,
and an oasis drifts past. Desert flowers arrive late.
Since they hadn’t cleared it with the moonlight,
they were sent packing before they could perform.
Backstage, they decided to hit the breeze
with all they got. And I for one was smeared.


– Colin Huerter