I shall retreat in to the desert
finally and for good
with a sprig of oleander
and a quart of rum
and a single sharp edge
concealed on my person
the blooming of the creosote bushes
shall signal, the sweat-sucking
desert-sonoran sun shall go,
the sentinel saguaros
shall point the way:
a moonlit concave upward,
with mountains and stars beyond
somewhere in the bigness that is
Arizona
I shall choose a spot, just right
shielded from the night-glow of the cities
beneath a screw-bean mesquite,
I shall build a cairn of milky quartz
shed what's little left of my empathy
and sleep.
