I think of a heart
Scripted into the soft sand
Of a hollow day, in the evening
Of the year. Broken by
A thousand footsteps
(I’ve known many hearts like this)
When the aspen were both
Green and yellow. I think of
The juniper, almost vertical,
Clawed to the steep bank
As if they might walk up
And over, but knowing
Their true fate, as if to never
Be below (I’ve known many
People like this). I think of
A time when the bones of
Stars have faded and all
Of space is empty, in the evening
Of the end. When there is
No light left to guide and the only
Sound is that of the dead
Tiptoeing through the arroyo.