07/28/2026
The maps forgot it first.
Then the names.
Now only the sun remembers,
hanging overhead
like an unblinking witness.
There is a hole
cut into the skin of the Southwest—
too round for erosion,
too old for history.
No sage.
No cactus.
No mercy.
Only dust
ground so fine
it no longer belongs to the earth.
The wind kneels there,
not to rest,
but to listen.
Some nights,
the darkness climbs out
just far enough
to remember the stars.
Travelers call it empty.
The desert
has never made that mistake.
