Post-Mortem

Waking one morning
On the edge of a dream,
We found ourselves dead,
Memories and consciences
Picked clean as a bone
In an O’Keefe desert.
We ambled across
An expanse of sand
Colored blood-red
But cold to our soles,
Not one of us aware
Where we were heading,
Naked knees rising
And falling all day,
Which stretched
To meet our march
Where it had begun,
On the edge of a lake
Bottomless
As our lives had seemed.