Shrine

The sky is white like a straightjacket
and blank, I can see that much behind the blindfold,
sense the heat and glare rising like a fevered assault
of blistering desert words. Stinging sand
raises welts like red ribbons, jeering
the symmetry of weeping dunes, their sway of
arterial waves and I'm alone,
an indignant curator, the steward of stained history
whose artifacts testify in silence,
as even now the crashing whitewater corrodes
like defacing bile and smeared paint.
the air sings with whirring pebbles,
stones cast at mirages and I fall
toward the setting sun, arms wrapped,
pressure on the beating wound. Red raindrops sprinkle
as they watch, arms at their sides
and mute, like my strangled voice, but we know,
our eyes scream, the rain will cease.
Like it did before.