Up north here, the dust
twisters race across the base
every afternoon, three tall sisters
leaning forward as they run.
The aerostat balloon tugs its tether.
Ring-necked pigeons
circle the chow hall and land,
circle and land.
The convoys leave and return.
They leave and return and the days
have no names.
I stab the desert with my knife
once a night to measure time.
I carry a fist of filthy air
that I am waiting to release
when my knife hits bone.
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