Because there is no drought at Times Square
the saguaros sigh more loudly
sagebrush stiffly sways
the smell of creosote is locked away
for years at a time
she is a cold rain
through which I peer into
four corners of a box
from which my bone dust is tossed
in the hot wind
never to test a canopy of mesquite
Because I walk across painted asphalt
through the fashion district
into treacherous moist fog
no Brujo conjured