I ate pips of you
where they fell
a scrounging dog
in hope they’d grow
through warmer days, less vinegared
less starched I wished
for sandstorms smooth
to smother each’s brittle trepidation
or blow upon
and blunt the knives.

I sharpened mine on yours
and sucked the sand
to globulate small balls
for spitting on your soul
across our sterile no man’s land
this desert rose
uncrossable
and cultivated blind.

You shared your sparks
in trusted palms
in centrifugal eyes
in wondrous heart
with someone else
a shadow crept
just weeks along
replacing mine
that dripped
the echoes of your pips.

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