No one is as pure as California light
And the cool become old in this wind
That carries the egret like a gaunt moth
On the venting of dry phantom tides.
The red cactus came here a long way to die
Where the half-alive stalks cry in unison
To leave this last russet of earth alone.
But what else can we touch when heaven's this close?
We're squeamish as the estuarine mud,
Silently making each day from clay
Til the pictures are framed and stories playacted
Like a fish that leaps without need of a bug.
