Water in the Western Desert

Arizona-Colorado

A conquistador dying of thirst,
I stick out my tongue for a drop of light-
I could swallow the oceans of the world
And float away....
The mind home like a dragonfly
To the glint of water,
Among canyons, arroyos, washes and ravines.
Water out of rock, fish out of rock,
The only truth in the world-
The philosopher’s stone!
The water beetle dives
With Olympic finesse,
Daring you to swim with him,
As flash floods of wonder
Burst from dead animals’ mouths.
Dip your hands into the glow,
Dip your head,
Submerge and emerge,
It is holy...
This water comes to change you.
Wade into the brightness,
Read the petroglyphs
On the walls.
Hot stones will heal,
And in the midst of drought
You will learn the language
Of water.
Ephemeral, immortal,
Follow the omens and rumours
In the air,
Track the smell of life
Like a burning coyote.
Luckless bones disintegrate
Into gravel and sand,
There is hoodoo here,
Secret as beehives.
Death gives you directions,
Precise as a Jesuit map
Or the desire for gold;
It s fitting you for a black cassock,
A midnight Mass.
Nothing is more patient,
More vigilant than the desert,
Nothing outlasts it;
It resolves all confusions.
The rains are rich in organisms,
In atmospheres,
Streaming and steaming
Down toad-holes,
Happy as dice on the roll.
These are the words of water
That timbre through the ear’s
Ravines, curved and cadenced
With innumerable nuances,
Inventing itself.
There is nothing else like it.
It is full of the deaths of comets
And the wildness of space.
A lifetime seeking sources,
That is my blessed curse,
Drawn to the silence
And enchantment,
Before the next abandonment.
Scent the unseen,
And navigate the blood;
The land wounds you
Into knowledge, urges connection
At all costs,as your pulse
Clocks the currents
And occasions of loss.
Through hard walking
You might learn economy,
To think with the senses
And feel with the intellect.
There is no answer
To an Anasazi handprint
On a sandstone cliff
Except you own hand.
Thorn and cactus
Keep your secrets;
The rattlesnake treats you
With exquisite courtesy.
Do you want to be pure?
Do you demand the torment
Of that devilish idea?
But, of course, you are human,
Carrying all that medicine and taboo
In a small bag at your throat.
You can never be as simple
And purposeful as the fireflies.
Poor little womb-swimmer,
Make an offering of your life!
As shale and sandstone do.
I just keep on walking
Into the fire,for I hear these tales
Of an old sailing ship stranded somewhere
Out there in the middle of the desert,
High and dry on the sands.