Lizard scales flake from the sun in July,
the flickers drill down
into patches of lawn
and the ghosts of the Hohokam sleep
until nighthawks sharpen their wings.
Then comes the time
by starlight and streetlight and light
ancient memory casts
to wander light of step. Gate here,
shadow there, a cluster
of thorns and a fence giving way
while asphalt dreams. There’s a desert
underground, a highway
through the sky,
the clock sweats minutes three
to four to doves and thirst
and the mountain’s breath follows
the wash where all
it takes is water
for a miracle occurring. Just see
how a coyote passes
through a cinder block wall.
.
David Chorlton
.