how to find your way in the desert
to begin with, you cannot
do not even try
paths here do not stay in one place
laid as they are over
tumbled rock and sand
here no padded trails
marked by avenues of trees or fronded-ferns
the plants will tear at your flesh,
rip at your clothes
do not follow the rattlesnake;
for obvious reasons
do not follow the raven;
it flies where you cannot go
do not follow the jackrabbit;
it will only lead you underground
but your path is not underearth
nor over
you must walk the line between
you will have to follow the land itself
to walk where it allows
but do not trust it
it will lead you incircles and inlines
inwards and outwards at the same time
there is no traversing this vastness
youmayfindyourwayintothislabyrinthbutcanyoutraceyourwayout?
coyote wakes us from sleep
stars wheel on like wagons
over canyon over sky
they strain to see
those invisible callers
those who gathered the spring
those who laid the path
those who painted the cliff walls
those who built the ruined
rancher’s shelter
and it’s empty fireplace
claude glass
wise people
or at least the scenically inclined
know that in canyon country
one must always turn
their backs on the sunset
forgoing the shifting light at the edge
of that overturned bowl of sky
in favor of the greater spectacle
unfolding on the cliff walls
already banded with color
marking their ageless age
but which
on the occasion of sunset
erupt into a fury
of reds and golds
knifes of deepening blue
running down
pooling dark, where water
that other blue
or green or muddy red
has carved long and deep
but tonight instead I face that sky
horizon already paling
in preparation for the going down
creosote and cactus wrapped in green-grey
joshua tree bending
like tired john wayne saying
i’ve seen too many westerns
too many heroes riding into the distant hills
already lost in purple
and quiet
inventory, march 26
last light on the mountain
slowly fading
pinnacles of stone
like some druidic line of teeth
long slopes, twisted trails of scree
read, if you can, these sentences
punctuated by dark pine/cedar/juniper
call them what you will
we are not botanists here
in the valley:
grass paler than my hair
an army of grey thorny sage
bruised and perfumed
on my fingers
they camp along
and spill like drunk soldiers into
the ravine
a red cut, a wound
a terra cotta that could stain your hands
no amount of scrubbing will wash
evidence perhaps of some
geologic crime
or is the earth above all that