Tired of being homeless,
of being fed by the ravens
because women won’t believe them,
at night the Joshua trees
begin walking out of the mountains toward town
where they, too, will put their money down
and eat in restaurants
while the tourists look,
shocked at what’s happened to the world.
But when the sun soars up,
at that sudden burst, their first challenge,
they stop, like any crazed soldiers
caught in a minefield
thinking that by standing still
they’ll be invisible.
Going home on this flying research trip
on which at the end of the desert road
we found the widow waiting at her door,
who by magic
handed us the manuscript of the nephew
all his life secretly in love with his cousin,
the first thing in the morning
you rush bushy-tailed
out of the Oasis of Eden Motel
and insisting I take your picture with one
strike your actress’s crepuscular pose,
laughing that the less I know
the more you’re full of joy.
(published in Permafrost, vol. 17, 1995)
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