Desert

 

 

Morning light

comes. I

gaze into planetary

shadow deep as

blindness, and morning

 

light gradually

comes, elemental

 

forms too: desert,

mountain,

sky. Morning

light comes

 

and sight precisely

as it did

through its long

slow 

beginnings, opening 

this world

 

inside us: planetary

desert, mountain,

sky when

 

there were

no words, no

words for

any of this.

It’s the least

possible hope: food, water,

shelter. Human

 

history begins

there, and I

 

never leave

those beginnings

really, wander at home

there, touching

the possibilities of

 

less.

I wake

somewhere deep

inside the blazing

 

cascade of star

generations. It’s early

 

spring, morning

air cool, sun

warm. I linger out

breakfast, walk, mirror

 

sky. The usual

things. Life seems

so simple

sometimes. Who’d suspect

this is how it

happens, how that

 

cascade of fire

rips day 

by day through

 

me, licking

its wounds?

 

 

 

 

 

Days go on

like this. Sky-parched

grass and desert

 

sky. Humming-

bird. Mesquite seed-

 

fluff tight in its

cracked sun-

scoured packet

 

spills out

on the wind. Some-

 

times, I

try to remember

that distinction

between

 

what I

am and whatever

occurs next.

Traveling today I

found a river

somewhere inside

me, wondered

 

how far it

wanders there

 

and how much

sky it

mirrors. All day

long, wind and desert

 

light, I

followed that river’s

distances, shedding

 

histories,

histories, until I was

nothing but

river. Nearing

mountains, I grew

 

cold with snow-

melt and evening

 

wolves drank from my

currents, tasting

the clarity of water

 

rinsing through every

cell alive, always

changing, always its own

transparent self.

Yellow sky-

parched grasses

and sky. The less

 

this desert

is, the more I

 

want to live

my life

over again. Ideas

 

confuse me. They

leave so

much out.