The Next Sky

Looking in

from the next world,

eyes still coated

with coal dust—

we seal black the past.

A dust storm’s bellow

cracks open thoughts

of crow beaks

pinned to smog,

bridging a mesa’s edge

to its midnight shadow.

Here, we notice

how hunger-bellied drought

skeletons the clouds,

then splinters beneath

a flint blade’s

jagged spike.

And there, under

the next sky: ghost hands

unlocking doors wiped clear

of the names of seasons

skinned from tire treads.

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