I walk out the kitchen door
trailing extension cords into the open
gaze of the Southwest—
the green surreptitious,
dusty like a trenchcoat.
From the beautiful lawnmower
float curls of evaporated gasoline;
the hinged ax of the butterfly pauses.
Where am I in the stingy
desert broom, where
in the blank soul of the olive?
I hear the sand preparing to flee…
Many still moments,
aligned, repair
the thin split of an afternoon—
its orange fiction, the dim
aggression of my daughter on the terrace drawing
her idea of a home. Somewhere
I learned to walk out of a thought
and not snap back the way
railroad cars telescope into a train.
The sand flies so fast, it leaves no shadow.
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