The thistle-strewn land to the side
Where the birds pick at stones
Seems inviting
I would go with my feet and converse
With the smoketree and ironwood
But the world on this side,
Of stucco and tile, would take
Whatever communion I had
Like parents take the adults
Their children had become away
On special occasions and holidays
So any walking I would do
Would be away
It was always the lack of the other one
That sent me into the arms
Of the desert woman
The spikes of ocotillo
That pray without asking
For supplication
Lack the quality of need
— We call it desire — for another,
To save and be saved
That’s why the chairs
Overlooking the mountains
Are always in pairs,
To see with changed eyes
The undifferentiated shrubs,
The arms like razors
