Passions that grow fewer empty the heart of blindness

for now, the better-sighted become mysteries to younger eager armies,

nervous laughter ensuing when they advance into a room

carrying musical instruments

tuning choruses emotional.

a black and white woman

talks confidently to a white and black man

while crossing this dark Saturday night street

off to gamble their lives away.

she has been silent,

cryptic,

yet I still recognize her

as my water fate.

she reminds me of someone I may have once known,

a woman recalled when driving all night highways,

a voice seeming to grow invisible when encountering more tangible voices,

far too distant to matter.

foreign currency.

but for now, beautiful people huddle together

crossing midnight streets,

illuminating light,

soft footed deer,

forms of clay desirous of water,

sculpted one by one,

singular trees lying just inside the jaws of the desert.

June 11, 1977

Bisbee