In the American Southwest,
the twisted carcasses of home-invading lizards,
filter loosely through my stale brush.
This frontier is new to me,
no bends of skyscraping steel,
no mounds of suffocating bodies,
just a vast and silent presence.
To Tucson from Las Cruces,
the Desert is relentless in Her fury.
By day she surrenders a nude rust,
skeletons and calico colors burning into
the crevices of her curve.
But by night She bathes in a cooling swarm of stars,
like drowned gnats floating their souls to the skies.
Hippies wave when you drive past.
Their turquoise grins go deep
deep to the bones of the earth,
where they make wine and tell fortunes.
They manufacture insight and destiny
from the palm of your hand.
“A Southwestern promise swirls the chieftain ’s maté,
but when it cools, his dreams descend to the foals.”
These mustangs run strong with devotion and meaning,
but their roads,
they float away
as an unaware breath rides with the broom.