Desert Poem

God struck a match,

scraped it upon the chafing flat of this horizon

and set aflame our sun, who burns

with the pure fire of eternal things

robed in Time’s illusions.

Thus may we come to know ourselves:

When she showers golden ash

upon us, and lights up the sky.

In this forsaken place

replete with signs,

I am prone to misgivings

over leaving the destitute for what is flowery—

Who are we to claim a greatness in the midst of disaster?

Rain spilt in the desert reeks

of wisdom


I close my eyes

and welcome Death, a rainbow.


Port Townsend