The desert's music is jazz,
not the willowy strings
of Monet's Eden
but fire from stallions
with a skill for freedom--
wildness without apology.
The desert screams in its sleep,
rouses the eagle with volumes
to scrawl across the
shameless sky.
This Pagan land doesn't
need the virtue of water
with a sky so deep it drinks
the eyes that praise it,
and on its shores is
everything and everywhere--
so many miles wasted on
bodies without wings.
I listen and hear nothing
but my soul waiting;
at that moment the music begins:
in canyons centuries are
the layered shrines of things
that lived and turned to flame,
and red sands singe the eyes--
its brass blares on and on,
blessing lives strong
enough for this heaven,
cursing those who see only stone.
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