Monday, August 24, 2009

Death Valley Poem

Teakettle Junction to Racetrack Playa


Dozen and a half teakettles hanging like moons.
They carry the afternoon heat like a handful of bees.
A wind-chewed sign at the center of their orbit.

Six miles to the impossible furrows of my dreams. The last
time I saw them I read their lines like a palm.


Here in the crook of these radioactive mountains,
the lakebed holds nothing but rocks and the rocks
hold nothing but the secrets of their inertia.

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