East Cape

Cockcrow ends the Mexican night.

We fish all morning on a warm blue sea
that puts a finish to ideas of blue

Peculiar clouds on soft green peaks
articulate the heart’s landfall.

Fish made of gold, fish made of light—
killed a little more by beauty,
we do some killing of our own, and then
siesta like the dead.

From rim to darkling rim the evening stars
strike their arch above the windy palm.

Years fall away from this body of dreams.

Heat Wave

A dream leaves the straight razor open.
In the old ivory handle, Chinese poets
are drinking rice whisky, cup after cup.
A naked woman swims the length of that blade.
The memory which follows her perfection
wants to know if a glass of blood will pass light.

The flute in its casket says nothing.
Dumb struggle enslaves every angel but one.

Fractal

The saw blade of mountains unsung,
broken up and scattered down arroyo and flume,
piece by countless piece, perfect replications
of planet grin and iron will.

This plain of catastrophic junk
means we’re in Yuma again,
bottomed out in the afterburner’s trace,
mesmerized by the lone saguaro.

A vortex of generation brings us here
to match our edges, to cross the border,
to hunker in a gulch where the thorn blossoms,
vision doubles, and the heart divides.