The Desert Prophets
by James Owens

A hollow in the nubbed lacework
of seconds, the centuries' lens

has focused you here, burning
a beginning in the breathturn,

a shift of silence toward word
across the texture of bone, dry taste

of earth in the gathered mouth of air,
trapped in the throat that knots against

itself a speech spindly with longing.

Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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