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You Can't Even Build Here
by Taylor Graham

Dry-wash sand erodes last nightís
hint, just a print-hold
of coyote, jackrabbit, lizard.
Cottonwood roots
wriggle their way somehow
down to water. Prickly-pearís
about to burst crimson
into cactus bloom.
Yerba santa stands forever
stiff as faith;
tree-tobacco with its pale
saffron trumpets
for hummingbird visitation,
for visions.

This is useless land,
arroyo seco saved
from building up all around
the fringes,
at least for now.



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