I found an old poem made of desert
bones, feathers, and thorns, but I couldn’t take it
with me, I haven’t learned yet
to smuggle poems out of the desert,
I know I shouldn’t leave poems behind,
I felt lost as I left this poem
amongst a pile of white stones,
I placed this poem with its dry feathers and thorns
carefully over the stones like rattlesnakes leave
their dry skin behind, I avoided its thorns,
I’ve gotten stung so many times in the desert,
desert poems sting is the worst,
by now,I should have learned to collect
and save poems in the desert,
I should be ready to carry painful poems,
I should have learned to split poems,
so I could take away a piece,
I should never, ever, ever leave poems
on top of rocks, a poem with bones, feathers, 
and thorns will be mistaken with another stone 
sitting amongst a pile of white stones;