R.C. (lieffeil) wrote in ahwehcafe,

Mitchell's Wind on the Altiplano

 We watched and counted
(forty-one-one-thousand, forty-two
as the bright wool scarf
cloud bank topped the mountain and descended
in a frothy tsunami.
The plain seemed flat like glass or pavement
from my perch onthe rock ridge, and
I remember that the prairie,
any prairie,
never wants or needs your falsehoods.

The plains don't give a flying fuck if you're
self-conscious or insecure or a sinner or a millionaire.
To Mitchell's wind,
you will never be anything
than your barest bones
covered in transparent flesh
gossamer for all it protects you.
You can cover up
what you've been taught to be ashamed of,
like a skinny dipper with cruel friends
but no one is watching you here.
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