They say there is beauty
in the desert night,
when the stars spin
to coyote calls,
sweet guitar strings
plucked in ease,
while he watches the flames
dance the oldest reel.

He chases the ruby embers,
careful to lay the lattice
of smoky mesquite,
building a fire to last the night,
and he will not speak
more than a few words,
for it is not his way.

He'll let the glow
burn the images,
cut into to his eyes,
try to cleanse his blood
of the scent of a woman,
and tell himself
you can't own
what will not be held.

And if the stars blaze,
or comets dazzle to ash,
he will see none of it,
the dude caressing the strings,
praying the sand grit
will erase what he should never have seen
in the eyes of a half hearted woman.

© Lisa Shields