May 19, 2015


Here, in the desert,
what they call a river
is a mere trickle
contained in concrete,
running down the middle
of a par-five fairway,
most of the year
completely dry.
It flows with life
only on maps,
where we show the world
what we would like to be,
so in our dreams
we will still believe,
arriving each night
after the journey
we all once made,
looking for blue
where none exists,
at first surprised
we could live this way,
then slowly resigned
to blowing sand
in every room,
the pool already hot
by May or June.