whipping up from the alkali flats
and deserts of Badwater and Armagosso Valley
dissipate like a maya veil toward the east,
over the mountains of Las Vegas.
The dust turned the deep cerulean sky
into a pale shadow of its former self.
We gritted silica dust between our teeth,
tasted ancient salt on our lips
and though our eyes blurred and burned,
the sunset was a spectacular flash of fire.
The next day, the poet William Pitt Root
The next day, the poet William Pitt Root
wrote from a neighboring state
how the dust blew in from the west
dimming even the sun.
I thought of Dorthea Lang's photos
and the Saharan dust cloud visible from space.
The sharqui and the shumali sandstorms of Iraq.
The lack of rain and snowmelt. The names of wind.
In this way, I realized how everything,
even distance and time
is right on our back doorstep.
4/18/09
4/18/09
Medusa's Kitchen, 2010
