In the dream, I killed my father. He had it coming.

Thus:

***

72 Virga

For Rhetorick, he could not ope
His mouth, but out there flew a Trope:
–Samuel Butler, The Metaphysical Sectarian

Light out in saguaro on the miracle mile
Point sails north to the oracle for gas,
food, and counsel. Leave the urbanity
behind. Mammoth bones hang in the air.

Pass the eldritch canyon, bridge the holy
river, soar even higher to the place you
smashed that gate. Now pluviculture begins
in diffident misting, sere uncommitted fog.

Rain fingers only brush this ground,
and thus twist themselves into vines
and ruby fruit. Fermenting into you and I.
Trucks grind up; fly, down, smoky heedless.

Finally you do top out, pine altitude.
Fir even, if you look close; there’s
smoke and cops and mormons, well, at
least you could buy proper appliances
.
Floating nimbly cross the plateau, rise
and fall both gentler. Ride straight on past
your own classless front door. Camera stop:
Concrete dinosaur, cement tipi, ma road black.

The working journey starts. International
boundary markers: cattle guard, pawn billboard.
The grass looks lots better. Pillars of salt.
Muddy side roads arrow sheep off to muddy hogans.

Radio she speaking in tongues, so absorb the
novelty and then turn it off. Quieter now
than it’s ever been before, right. The last
turn is a left. Slip it to neutral and coast.

So many clicks to see dun horse of rock sand.
Checking the rearview, find the closest safe
spot, pull it over. Turn the key and chirp.
Footpilgrim the last yards, dirt for the lacing.

Slow monolithic circumnavigation, enumerate the colors
of its lichen skins; take off your glasses, peer again
Press your cheek to the warmth before it escapes, inhale
the dust, yet once again, before you return, becoming it.

18 April 12, reign o’er me