70spoems/desert

She was talking about the magic,
the mystery of the desert,
I confessed I didn’t see it,
that the desert made me want to go home.
Let’s go home. There’s nothing here
a dry throat/a sting in the air
too much meanness for the heart to bear.

I loved him. I had to.
He left my heart with a singe,
stinging alcohol in the eyes
and it isn’t the fire of pain
that hurts so as the void
where vision once was,
the absence of point of view
which robs the feet of ground,
the hands of something to grip,
the psyche, which does not exist,
flapping in a vacuum.

I had to love him.
He would leave my heart
so empty of life
I could barely crawl
through the night
to steal enough love
to live until morning.

I had to love him.
He left my heart a desert
all memory/faith in green
dead.