shopping cart on a desert road,
a loose wheel, always veering off course.
Rattle rattle, underneath a scatter of stones.
My new method of survival is
to gather up all the dead pieces: the red dust and bile,
each papery smile that crumpled, a throbbing laugh,
the knocks of my knees, bad senses of direction,
Then I'll sew them together
to form something strange and alive again.
No more dried up roots, deserted lives.
"That thing you’re afraid of losing.
It’s already gone," said the shovel to the dirt
that covered its face.
"Worse," the dirt replied, "It never existed.
It wasn't there in the first place.’"