Desert

The arroyo twists its sand hipsat the thought of rain, tipof DNA at the center of greyspotlights, first clause

in the program read and re-read,as if sky had the same memoryas land, as if the lastfull moon and its cohort stars

were too faulty to drawa ten-year rain from their well.The sidewinders know full wellhow tightly the springs of dust

are wound each night for the tinylives, roots never quite dead,the ghostly subsistence that risesfrom each corpse, the vultures off

track, and the heat’s immovablebubbles for all the amateurticket-holders to ponder. Scorpionsmuscle the front row seats

like clowns or tumblers, sawdustsprings for the first intimationsof water. The grandstands leanforward when the ringmaster

appears. Vendors hawk shreddedcactus for sparklers. Look,the sky darkens, one cloudwavers over center ring.