El Paso, Texas: Weather Report
(A Poem)
The tips of my fingers are red with blood,
cut open by the dryness,
cut open, they are defenseless against the attacking air.
Armies of sand and wind batter the windows and doors.
They demand victory and will not hear of surrender.
The sun, sand, and wind are all assassins:
they will have blood.
Fine particles of sand are spies:
they penetrate every sealed window and door.
The desert will win;
we will all be slaughtered.
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