Antonio, here the place I find you:
outside the walls of Mission Alamo.
Late light bides in the spread arms of oaks;
patio fountains sound tragic Spanish airs,
weighted drops of limpid music
on powdergold sandstone.
Shadow spreads and flattens,
evening engages a quiet of cool,
the fading plash of bougainvillea
dripping deeper.
Outside, a window wide
to the spray of night,
I open your book of pictures,
the world you see.
Half a continent away I catch your eye,
open the lid of the slide
to find your mind inside,
the pattern of your sight,
my attention’s camera obscuring
all scenes but yours.
Later, darker yet,
come unbidden dreams of awful metal birds,
the clatter of skulls,
Santa Ana shaking orbits of sleep.
This night cracks open
desert storm’s horrid beauty,
stars broken everywhere,
the blasting cold hot battle
of inalienable states.
The thunder booms in from the gulf,
up the Rio Brazos de Dios
battering black clouds over the plateau,
the lightning too
the war of peace.
January 17, 1991