This moon--
I cannot stare long
into that white bulb
lighting the low desert, my
fear of dying
before I'm ready
and my other fear--
I may never be ready--
all this extravagant beauty
standing in the way.
In this old basement
of North America--
this dried out sphere
of flat but rocky plain,
of ruffled mountains
of pyramid dunes,
on cracked ground where
once blue seas gleamed
for centuries.
This sand confirms it all,
red mountains divulge
what broke them
to all who speak
their language.
Here I see what will become of me
but cannot turn away.
This black vault,
this white flash above,
all the nebulas beyond--tell
that nothing survives the night
that I do not think these things
alone.
