xxxxxii.

up to the wire fence, falling
into the dust of the hillside
I walk with the businessmen through the scrub
to a pile of stones

that was once a shrine.

later, I walk with the students
past it, over the last hump
we watch the stars wash over the ridges

and the valley, the fields are grey

in the hotel, there is a garden
made of plastic flowers
with a plywood arch.

it was a long way, slow
on the bus
to get out of the city

in the heat of the conference room
they do the butterfly dance,
from the south—

desert

sing a hymn--for those who fear in the desert
clear and carrying as sung by coyote
cutting across all the bleak expanses
that even the sun fails to delineate
clear and cool as a stream murmurring
between the boulders, nearby
promising you will rest in the shade
soft and clear as rain falling in the dust
clean and clear as wind blowing off the sea
the shape of other coastlines, buried in salt
clinging to its feathers