Sunday, April 19, 2009


The palo verde slashed the sky into submission
until it blanched pale with alkali dust. At Zabriski Point
it spoke to the wind, like a whip into horseflesh
slashing the lost words of the long dead into shards
carrying them, until a storm raced across the desert
only to come back to haunt us with malingering speech,
a frenzied devotion of syllables and sand in translation,
not knowing where its been, or where its going to,
just topographically gritting its teeth below sea level. 
At the oasis, palm fronds invoked the names of the wind:
diablo, sirocco, mistral, santana. A resurrection of sorts.

19 angry poem

No comments: