The Piercing Strangeness of the West


The sun is a fever dream
in the hands of dark things
roaming through dust
like the skinny lizard
scuttling through skeleton brush
or the wind whipping rocks
and blinding stars
with its many voices of holiness
and the juniper trees
bathed in the sky’s blood
and the sage waiting
for a hitch in the air.

It lies on its back, silent.
Throat dry, thunderstruck.



(© Phoebe Pan 2017)