Like an Armless Saguaro

I have been standing like an armless

Saruaro, surrounded by my protector Paulo

Verde, for forty years, and feel verily

The inner pressing of a monumental

Gesture of hail to that bright signal

Some call Sirius, in joy, at an unusual

Amount of rain soaking my pedestal

And reaching my arthritic Knees.


Thus have I been kneeling and expanding

My flat globules like a prickly pear

In fear of the rotting that is progressing

Toward my buttocks, up from the

Quartz laden ground, searching

Across this alluvium for one more

Blue broken bit of glass to capture

Under one of my extensions, there to hide

It so that it shineth only in the very

Early morning’s low eastern Sun, who

Always undermines my dew-hugging elbows.


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