The Land of the Red Devil

Poetry about hallucinogens.

So much of you
like a desert:
that all-dragging thirst,
quiet sun softly
casting you aflame.

Time moves
fast—
slow—
as a broken clock,
skipping and
then missing
unnoticed seconds.

Every step, your brain turns
to sand, cast
away—indiscriminate.

And yet

the desert lies before you still,
the biggest picture.
It begins to snow. The sun
becomes
a snowflake you catch
on your tongue.