Bring, in this timeless grave to throw,
No cypress, sombre on the snow;
Snap not from the bitter yew
His leaves that live December through;
Break no rosemary, bright with rime
And sparkling to the cruel clime;
Nor plod the winter land to look
For willows in the icy brook
To cast them leafless round him: bring
No spray that ever buds in spring.

But if the Christmas field has kept
Awns the last gleaner overstept,
Or shrivelled flax, whose flower is blue
A single season, never two;
Or if one haulm whose year is o'er
Shivers on the upland frore,
--Oh, bring from hill and stream and plain
Whatever will not flower again,
To give him comfort: he and those
Shall bide eternal bedfellows
Where low upon the couch he lies
Whence he never shall arise.

Although I hardly gave it a thought
I didn't really doubt
our miniature juniper, a bonsai,
would survive our desert vacation.
                                                       ­   It likes the dry
air of our home, needs water
once a week at most and seems
meditative and active, both. While away
I rediscovered my love of agaves -
                                                          sotol­ and century
plant - met Mortonia and became
reacquainted with squawbush, its citrus
drupe which makes traveling the long horizon
of the desert uplands endurable.
                                                      ­    Live oaks - emory,
wavyleaf - dominant and regally spaced
giving ground to mesquite only on the sere
sand flats. I counted and drew inflorescenses,
spikelets, florets, awns but grasses
                                                         ­  remain a mystery
their microscopic parts. This year
I'll study, give them serious thought before
our Spring starts. The cactus wren was the one
bird I could be certain about. Sunsets
                                                         ­  made me sorry
the desert is not my home. But the ocotilloes
flowered before we left and that made up
for the vicious attack of a hedgehog cactus.
Impressive, ponderosa pine and Arizona cypress
                                                         ­  the canyon canopy
watered with snowmelt and along the high cliffs
limestone formations predating our arrival by
ten million years of weather. Newspapers
kept us aware humanity had not accomplished yet
                                                           the end of history
and that was fair. The planes were full of citizens
who no longer applaud upon landing. Snow flew,
not a pinyon pine or manzanita within two moons
walking. On the dining room sideboard, waiting,
                                                        ­   our miniature juniper.

8AM strikes like a *****,
And romping the losing street -
The engineered reptile stalks the hound we are.

The soldiered army, oozing molten pride,
Spike me in the side with their knees
Lifted to caution, so-so below the chin

The cold, dead breath bullies like a child
Never been taught, never have they ought;
I give them pity like spit, the drool reared.

The glands of my sodden state are nucleic
They spark and fizz and pop at the slightest fix
And they mount the green turf as they say the things they say

They say them in spite
Their eyes to register a flat-line, the pulse of my eyelid
Froths staring into their granite granules, you call them eyes

I do despise, I do despise,
The heartless range of those hunter-deers,
The wet pathos that criminals invoke

And then, I woke, the rage, the rage!
A mountainous affair, cracked into your skin
You wished I were dead so you could be thin.

And when I am not hot,
Risen, aired by the microwaved Monday dawning,
I can almost laugh about the spaces between your eyes

The slight disgust, the frozen musk
Awns over me, little fist tight of pink
Ears rabbited off -- a sharp, twisted empale

And then, you are there--
Frozen and dominating, your coffin spooks to me
A spoken longing and then all we know wilts

A running red cloak of tartan regrets
Jades the illicit wail bespoken after the instrumental twist
The torture device you call your words is broken out

I ask for one thing, beg for it, screech it
To the solars like I am owed.
Knowing Death, if not heed, the spited greed--

Give me strength, for the thoughts
The thoughts, that blow through me
Windswept, gliding the dead human ash through my marsh

Do not upturn the limped greyed grass
And blow through, a harmless storm,
With nothing to say about how I carry my day.

Move on to your homeward-bound, your
Concentration plantation, reeling off dead spinners
Like your words, your cold ******* words.

You slimy *******, you ****,
I have spoken, one million syllables,
For your satisfaction.

You lord it over me like a raw-meat hand
Of the disciples. Well, well, Judas, Judas --
I bite my tongue. I bite it so it jades.

Lips
Just parted
Hips
Just started
Nervous minglings
and chemical interactions
are making music in the boy's spine

He stirs a cocktail
Meanders back to the hotel room
With a **** little prize

These jazzy adults with twinkling eyes
Unbuckle and unslide, stroking each other
With soft word music, but just intent
Angled for the bed.

Lips just parted
Hips just started
He lunges into her
And just for a moment the days come rolling back
With his eyes, hid by eyelids
Like two awns made of skin

Suspended in the marble of his mind,
She is fifteen
He thinks about her from time to time

He is conditioned never to say a word,
But she started his life.

The sun shines where mountain crags hold magnificent pine trees
Whose strong limbs hold wafting awns,
Home to many singing birds

The forest floor gives and cracks underfoot
The fresh and sharp scent--
From that glinting sap
In the morning sun

Life is bound on all sides by a crashing light
An impenetrable boundary forcing you to a finite sum
You are fine with this--
You will remember this trip, this place
Until your ends start to fray
You make no desperate offers to death
And require no souvenir
From this place