Desert Dancefloor


 Desert Dancefloor

This morning I sit alone,

watching the pulse of the desert
rise with the sun.

A rhythm reveals itself
in the creosote,
in the sparrows picking through gravel,
in the shadows retreating
toward the mountains.

The earth has its own nightclub.

No neon.
No last call.

Just heat gathering itself
for another long set.

It reminds me of New Orleans—

rain-soaked nights,
basslines rolling through my ribs,
the dance floor crowded with ghosts
wearing the faces of the living.

Back then,
I danced to outrun myself.

Sweat erased the edges
of old insecurities.
The music made promises
it could never keep.

I know where the bodies are buried.

Not in the literal sense.

I mean the dreamers,
the lovers,
the beautiful wreckage of people
who burned too brightly,
who mistook the spark
for the sun.

Some are buried beneath memory.
Some beneath regret.

Some beneath songs
I can no longer hear
without stopping.

Now the desert is my DJ.

The ether spins invisible records.

The wind scratches across the mesquite.

The sun drops its needle
onto the day.

And something ancient begins.

The heat pulls me closer.

The mountains sway.

The horizon stretches itself thin
like a long shimmering beat.

I find myself dancing again,

not with my feet,

but with my attention.

With my breath.

With the wild things
that know exactly what they are.

The rattlesnake beneath the stone.
The thrasher in the birdbath.
The lizard flashing between shadows.

All of us moving
to the same relentless track.

The same cosmic rhythm.

And for a moment,

alone beneath an endless sky,

I feel the desert take my hand,

pull me into its sweat-soaked anthem,

and I remember—

I was never meant
to stop dancing.

Only to change
what I danced for.

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