Based on “Galerias” by Antonio Machado
I.
On an azure string
invisible wrens
descend on the palos verde…
their porous voices
find hollow homes
of blowholes for wind
in swaying sajuaros
mid the rattle of October.
II.
A yellow mountain, black rock washes, the hands
of glowing cactus from crevasses of sand,
and the red fruit fishhook dots the land—
ooh, spikes like blooms and dead white wood!
With an aroma of fall, the grasses rasp,
the locusts crackle, the rabbits are golden.
III.
The sun withholds
between negligee clouds.
The cactus arms open, like eyes.
Orange walls hide from the sun
behind desolate pools
and carpet-covered windows.
The air is at one with the ground.
The dust is a part of the glass.
IV.
Hillside chiaroscuro.
The dull hum of chimes
is overtaken by hungry engines and lonely dogs
then silence - enough to hear the crickets
—and the crazy plans of crows—
and the breathing desert quiet
that breaks every spell I know.
In the valley,
the jetsam and the weeds are perfect as they are,
one would no less disturb the girls who eye with awe
their fathers in the dumpsters
than remove the leaning pink particle board
that holds together, like a bandanna on a dog,
the whole community.
V.
Above the highways’ gurgling streams
and the squeals from the amusement park
the only sound is a bird keeping time.
Late afternoon, all is still and glistening.
Then, everything that’s green waves with the wind.
One cannot get love from a stone
—it’s there, to be seen.
VI.
These pocked rocks, like craters from the moon
spit out like spent charcoal
from an inner earth ogre
glare out the time when the pocks turn brown,
the dirt turns blue,
the brush spikes purple, the birds red.
Three hot air balloons the only still thing in the sky.
The canvasses relentlessly move, and we coalesce
Their partial truths, blind to the infinity that taunts us.
Pieces of perfection convince us we’re not perfect,
and we piece together everything—the now to the lost,
the green cloud mountain to a single tree.
VII.
Yet in fragments only
is there wholeness,
only moments
silence time.
The longing disattaches
and endures past memory
for all these boundaries to end.
This one cobbled hill at a dusty location
strands me in its silence, its distance,
its hidden sense.
