when driving with old music under slated smoke against the brushstroked horizon fading along mountains to the west as the sun-heat of the high desert reflecting off the scent of sagebrush gives way to a chill mist collecting on burnished sandstone and granite with small patches of veridian moss and lichen in the wild geometry of a late afternoon as amber light stretches out into a blanket under which nothing can harm us
(not even the future not even the past
[this is a good place to stop and get out the cameras] ),
our gaze sweeps the scattered domains of the earth, of the coyote and the elk and a railroad track not used in years;
soon, we will start thinking of good food and something cool to drink.
Softly now, as your soul sings in the depths of the dark.
Sweetly now, as we drink deep from the overflowing cup.
The ceiling fan spins light kaleidoscopic in the late evening, and the sheets smell like you, and my shirt is scented with dust and musk, and we trace each other’s tattoos and taste of each other’s wine and speak our stories into the air.
So lightly, as my fingers brush the back of your neck.
Elegantly, as your hand rests upon the rising of my chest.
Slowly, as thunderclouds growl and gather in the distance.
The hours after midnight are only for the nameless, the forgotten, the secrets, the lovers, the ascendant.
Carefully now, as I carve your name into the side of my heart.
Does it fly full-out and free under the sun? Does it hide and whisper its dreamings in the dark? Does it drift in fitful slumber beneath the sea?
What voices, still, are carried on the horizon’s wind?
Where do they go?
And why, why is all this insanity very much like a coming home?
(does it even matter?)
Here, I’ll tell you a secret:
I have no idea.
But I think it’s very close
to whatever makes a horse dig its hooves hard into the ground, playing with the earth at the scent of rain, throwing out ripened patches of green grass to an evening blanket-sky burgeoned with pillars of midnight as the final spears of sunlight slip past the edges of thunderwaves forged in hearts of lightning.
The chords of sunset fall to the earth
and drift ever lightly,
flowing through warmth of a summer
to fade down low-key in the electric descent of the night,
where your touch
is the ghost of the last solstice;
the thunder of the preceding equinox,
and the kinetic energy
of angels all fallen to perfection;
where your soul
is a roaring and territorial
song of the solar aurescent…
and your heart-
your heart, seeking in the wilds of humanity
a home that was here, ever-present.
Staring down the slowly-racing horizon,
breathing in the dusklight,
lungs filling deep with the dust of dead suns,
one silent prayer,
one lone evocation into the dark defiant, my dear:
may, one day,
you deny your god
before the crowing of the next sunrise
by daring to look up as you once did-
to watch the stars.