by Richard Dinges, Jr.

Dry air cracks leaves,
a rasp across dead
lawns shredded to dust,
blowing relentlessly
into red horizons.
Confused between clouds
of dirt and smoke,
this world dissolves
into a haze,
my cataracts a blessing
that I see no more
than what I need
to move from one door
to another before
I crumble back to dust
and join the restless wind.

Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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