MindSpinner

2003

In the desert there is always an oasis
just there,
at the horizon
shimmering.
But as fast as the car gallops the miles
on black ribbon through hot sands,
it never arrives.
There is no splashing,
no water’s edge,
no drink,
no shade,
no underworld of green and cool
and fish,
no plunk and splash
when I cast my line toward depth.
The oasis always shimmers
just there
at the horizon –
mirage,
idea,
hope –
siren of sand.

So here in the desert,
I abandon pursuit,
though the mirage winks
if I lift my eyes to look.
I do not cast my poems or my dreams
far forward on a line of hope
toward silvery ripples of heat and air
to land on thirsty dust.

I make a patch of shade instead
and propose to sink a well
into deep underground rivers.
I hope there are rivers.
I have heard there are rivers.
Beneath the stars
I sleep curled tight and alone.
Beneath the sun
I burn and dig.