Exercise

Ah, writing exercises. This is by no means a poem, not yet anyway, but I kind of like it so I'm letting it out.

I woke in the desert this morning
spread eagle and finely dusted with corn
dust like pollen, like seeded sweat
in one hand a prickleless pear
blue agave spine in the other
body wrapped in fine linen going
dingy, wrinkling to store the dust
a wearable map of sleeping

and this is no religion, no God
found in the pointing of succulents
though I brought one to my mouth
bit and spat and sucked the stored
water that tasted musty and fresh
all arid paradoxes, this morning

no, this morning was a gift of dreaming
an odd syncopation of heartbeats
until finally a gecko, desert sybil
clung wall-less to my brow
high and wide and open like a basking
rock where he began to know the day

under the the waking lizard, mouth
smeared with cactus dew
eyes dilated despite the rising sun
this was a gift of dreaming and
revelation--some dreams belong
to the waking hours
to the deserts that rise between
waking and working
some deserts need no rain to bloom
when the sand itself is blossom