Everything I know about the desert
was taught by Gary Larson: two men
crawling on their fours with thirst
over a vacant tract, collide head first,
with all the white page space about them.
Four square absurdity, instant as ink
the comfort of scenario's remove,
cacti and cow skull: that what else occurs
in a desert? Impossible things on cue,
beaten adrift like the dance of side-winders
shaped to the endless, beveling dune
and vapours that writhe from the changing brink,
take place at the place of the far, far side,
where heads that bump and how do you do's
are anciently surfeit as kitchen sinks.