Monday, June 27, 2022

Bonita Rose in Gemini

Linseed tortilla,
The hills collapse in sun
And re-attach
To the crystal straits
With the merest breeze.
It flashes so fast 
The tourists won't 
Pick it up, this
Burning coin in the sand.

There's something permanent
In these rocks
Despite the shadows
And the constant change
Of Being therein,
Duende to sober
To sharper than nails
-- Kindness is only implied
Far away from the visitors

Scorpion spiders,
The conversation moves
Like the wind,
The bathers play
Like the waves,
The children float
On sunswept clouds
As if they are
From there.

The singing crocodile
Mourns the unbuilt
The tire gardens,
The over-dessicated lawns
That disappear in an instant
To oblivion,
Where everything lives.

The rock returns
As if it never left,
But nothing was here
In dirt-road 1974
Or yesterday.

The desert sun 
Denies there is a 
Material world
And no philosopher 
Will stand in
Against it

Another planet away,
People laughing
From a distant nebula --
The pink that surrounds
This silent dome
The only thing that's real.

The black swans
The peacock 
The aviary thinning,
       Cheryl dying
Yet the bougainvillea 
       shows its 

Baja Sur
  as inhospitable as the earth
                            can be
       And we come --
  It holds the mother's
                 fortune cards 
  and never says a thing --
We call that healing.