The homeless have defrosted. Wanderlust
propels them to crisscross Oasis Base.
Daughter of Grackle, leave thy Mum alone!
cawed Papa Grackle, and her Mum flapped off and he;
then she flapped with their sudden urgency.
The homeless on their desert walkabouts
have thick brown calves and cancerous black sores.
There dawn a dozen seasons in the spring,
a dozen seasons in the summer here.
These are distinctive bands of waves of bugs
as suddenly as small black beetles roam
the carpets on their epic, crisscross way.
The Sun begins to cull the weaker birds.
The cats and birds pant in Sonoran heat.
Coyotes lope across the parking lot.
Three clowning grackles play in sprinkler spray.
I learned from <<Paterson>> the following:
a clump of cactus paddles in twin brights;
Go into Settings... Yes, that's right... Now click
a grimy crumpled Quiktrip styrofoam cup;
on Local Color Epicenter Stage
squirrels epicanthic, still, inscrutable;
and set to 'On'. Save Settings and click out.
The stage set: an oasis in a kiln.
You need lush microcosm for the whole,
to sing beige sand alongside filaments
just as a statue needs its plinth, just as
the water flows serenely down canals.
The oven has preheated.
Alien July attacks, essentially,
and then I do not feel like I'm on Earth.
But then the August reinforcements come
just when we are exhausted-dazed by heat
with 'Welcome back to Earth, Ambassador!'
Then perfect weeks, isles of the blest,
glide past, serene as archipelagos.
Wildlife's activity abruptly stops
obtruding on one's notice for some months.
Inexorable sunset sinks in time.
And then the first chills of the year waltz in,
exacting payment for warmth's frolicsome
expanse. The type of sleep abruptly shifts,
accompanied by richer dreams but half
remembered and a sense of bed's warm womb.
Autumnal raw exposure of the heart,
all nerves, glides forward through the tiny blades
which dice interiors exposed to life
in ultimates; like dicing of the Word
between the bones and marrow and between
the fining pot and furnace, flood and fire.
