Arizona

Tove Trelstad-Larsen

Can you spell out this strangeness, concoct a mixture to adequately imitate this burnt landscape, these strange hills, that look like they hide giants, that pulled the trees over their shoulders like a blanket, and curled up, snoring softly, not knowing the eons passing.

I can’t do long division well, or breathe out wind, but hope I can see something true and resist the temptation to, refine it, or curl it into something new. Let the roughness shine through and say, yes. Breathe in the craggy mountains and cough out rocks and dust and shrunken trees onto a page.