Seven days of life
in playa earth and white-outs.
You are dusted pure.
* *
Shirt once a bright pink
lost against green tent, gold car,
my white muted hair.
* *
Days later these clothes
still cough powder; hate to think
what my lungs look like.
Posted by
Tim
at
12:28 AM
1 Comments
Labels: Burning Man, haiku, photography, poetry, travel