From “Mojave Ghost” [In the city, a weather of zeros-and-ones] 

In the city, a weather of zeros-and-ones 



cascades through rising static, while here



in this xeric topography, we fold ourselves



into the circumstance of desert foothills



chewed away by leprosies, toothed winds, and 



sudden rains. Will you let me 

approach you? Bend forward 

and touch consequence, tenderness, leave



the trace of my fingertips 

on your throat’s dimple, your 

clavicle, nipple? Lean in. In  

my mouth, the sound of  

your name has changed.