So delicate,
the mountains
stand, like paper-mache experiments
sculpted by a shaking hand, no,
perhaps a thoughtful hand,
one set with the intent of chaos.
A moon landing, situated atop this plastic
grass – green yet as living things,
and bone adobe walls,
and red striated rooftops,
on which the sky lounges blue and gold.
So momentous comes the moon,
perpetually visible in the sky, a totem
of the lands which may perhaps
live beyond this small oasis
within the desert's palm – a thought,
and it escapes me.
A living mirage.