A desert underneath
The crooked line that makes the shore
Which calms and curls the sand back
To an image of itself.
The winding pull of water still
Remembers every grain of sand
It’s hot rough essence, the quiet still
At the bottom of the current
On the crest of a dune. It calls out
With a winded hush, what matters now
Is water, what has always been,
what will never be
Enough. A desert underneath,
takes time to quench.
I can still hear the ocean from the brush
a low hollow whirr, bent over blowing
on its back; a despicable thud coming from
deep, the caliche hums, secret reserve
water table bubbles, the desert awake
with the sound of rain – {finally} rain!
but the sand slaps back a symphony clap
hard from ten thousand nights rind dry
unaccustomed to moisture the desert resists
& the water is whisked off to lower ground
but down below, where the silt has drunk
its fill of ancient quench and slept for centuries
I can still hear the ocean, from the cacti
rinsed, swelling fruitful spines, barrel
rolled open the Joshua trees with arms
Spread out—sing the Mohave a lullaby
Like a wind chime, every drop a note
On their shingle pines; I can still hear
the ocean, from all that time ago
—ECW
All the history I know
Is the way the dust blows
Sanding the surface to shine.
A west so wild the night howled
At its own shadow and slept
Belt-buckle out to witness Sirius.
The metal on the tip of his boots
An oasis of light, with chinking stroll
He stole the summer and planted
His tumble-weed seeds in Mojave, with love.
Pan wanderer, look away, from this city
Lawned in suburbia. I remember the desert.
I remember the heat. The heartbeat
Of the sun on the valley
when we wrote in ropes the west wild.
—ECW
