Mesquite

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One day, a man decided

he could walk across Texas

and grew old trying, lost

his way, ended up twisted,

turned around on himself,

reaching out an arm, then

another, and then another,

until he was only arms

pointing all around

at the horizon — his skin

hardened, but his body began

to snap, and could be picked up

easily by the hands of

children at their games,

pretending at divining

water, writing curses

in the dirt, later

dropping him into

the fire, not all of him,

only a piece, a broken

part of him he knew

would only just grow back,

and he would let it — his heart

burst into sap, a dark

seen through, slugging down

toward feet that have forgotten

where they were going.