the better-sighted become mysteries to eager younger armies,
nervous laughter ensues as they advance into a room.
once a black and white woman
whispered tenderly to a white and black man
while crossing a dark Saturday night street
off to gamble their lives away.
she had been silent,
cryptic,
yet still recognizable
as my water fate.
she may be someone I may have once known,
that woman recalled while driving the all night highways,
her voice far too distant to matter
irrevelant as foreign currency.
now other beautiful people
cross those midnight streets,
soft footed deer
forms of clay desirous of water
illuminating gorgeous light
sculpted one by one,
singular trees sheltered just inside the jaws of the desert.
June 11, 1977
Bisbee