rude horizon

on the salt flat I plod/too tired to stride/and try to make small talk/with the horizon/but it is rude to me/gives me the cold shoulder/and what is worse/backs away from me/with each step i take

so at tedious last i give up and turn around/but just as i do/the horizon/in a high urgent feminine voice/shouts “Wait!”

so i turn back around/and find that while rude/the horizon has nonetheless birthed me a gift/a woman my age/in desert gear

and I drink from her canteen/and we walk toward the shortest way/to civilization/and we have quick murky adventures/and before i know it she is leaning over me on my deathbed/kissing me memorably on the lips/and raining on me with fat splashy tears

and this is no dream

it is however an imagining

but it has dream elements of symbolism/and a longing that drives the narrative

and the magic of impossibility/horizons not being rude/nor capable of giving birth/to the woman/of my imaginings