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Middles of Deserts

Read by Erica Dawson

No entry, no door, no
clean line around
the drifts that twist

and send sand flying in the wind.
The extreme comes only
when you’re in,

well into the basins
floored with salt
and copper flecked rocks,

when temperatures
spike and plunge
and creosote lives long.

Think pronghorn, think hawk,
think of red dirt.
You can bask now:

water-like light
shining hard
in that wash of unwalked land.

Amy MacLennan has been published or has poems forthcoming in River Styx, Hayden’s Ferry Review, Cimarron Review, Rattle, Wisconsin Review, Folio and South Dakota Review.