Solstice

Those hands
are certainly not meant to be clasped behind my back
wrestling against the sand.
My eyes, however, cannot resist the struggle.
the desert does not give back any tears
it expands endless before the eye
toward the melting sky, stained blue, watercolor.
The sun indifferent to my skin
cocooned around the bone
The sun indifferent to the whitewashed steeple
of the little church under the rock
The sun indifferent to each shallow tire-track
shadowed by my own broad back…
Whoever said blue is the color of water?
Blue is the color of a cloudless sky.
And the countdown continues. Five weeks till sunset.
All is still in that desert of my mind
and the quivering high-pitched whine
of microphone feedback noise
echoes out over the landscape.
Why is the sun indifferent?
A summer two summers before
lawn chair aching from the belt
the singer on the speaker smooth and loud and powerful
and uncle in the pool and he’s coughing
and he says
get in
the water’s incredible.
Whoever said blue is the color of water?
Blue is the color of the infinite night.

Of wheeling stars, those bright white holes
in the dark blanket of sky
holes to a bright place somewhere beyond
holes I cannot climb through.
The night too far from here
this sun-baked golden bowl
hands clasped behind the back
watching the wind bring in birds
fresh from beyond the stateline.
Fresh from the other side of the ocean
the other side of the sky
another place
another time.
Birds singing
get in
the water’s incredible.