a desert within a man

I guess a man could die out here

on the brink of a poem a desert is but a place within oneself where the sun burns the eyes and the rhythm of the words and the consonants and the bowels a desert within a man

I guess a poem would burn in here if only we had the guts to write it out loud in blood and crucify it the guts to wear the lamb’s decaying cadaver as our best sunday garment and go to church and read the poem

and the poem would read I guess a man has died here