Of Course
5pm in San Manuel. Imaginary waves
Rise off the caramelized Sonoran,
Crash at the baby-blue feet of the Catalinas.
I haven’t earned my wings, so borrowed my mother’s car
And parked behind the double wide
“Church of Christ.” Sheet metal steeple.
Uncoiled in the bronze dry wash the diamondback takes his nap.
Invisible mourning dove, whet December sand,
At once absorbing and expelling the heat.
The dehydrated box spring lies tied in twisted pussy willow.
Magnetic black sand. Hollow gourds.
Green Saguaro; nocturne hostel.
The dove whose draw is heard all the way at the edge of town
Where the stacks were fell so they wouldn’t fall.
Unnatural expanse of flat.
Time was one could watch the stacks breathe the day’s last ore
On the stained glass sky before night set
And the sand turned icy. Nothing retains heat
Like the snake. I’m arriving late for Christmas dinner again.
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