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"High Desert" (by Joe DiMino) That fear (Emptied of contents) Naturally comes With the oils gone And the itch back- Not as the first, that of youth propelling Now dryness, Scales hardening away No longer their pots Tipping toward time; Yet the writer Was never one Daunted by near emptiness, A blank page As a high desert landscape One seeks large cracks To tiny crevices Encouraged by cacti And a moving shadow From something quite live Overhead Leave a comment