to rain red on
the cliffs,
you come.
Running
down and then
up rough arroyos,
brushing past ephedra and creosote
as a pale
breeze cools your sweaty neck,
you come—
flushed and thorned.
Needing
nothing and expecting less.
And even
before you arrive,
we have said good-bye.
Even before we
count
all the water
catchments on our white
sandstone
mesa, or
find the
flaked knife in a cave.
But maybe you
love me a little?—lying
beside me near
the cliff edge
200 feet high
in the
blackening air, as moon and stars
flick
on—knowing
you’ll soon need to hold my hand
back down the
pathless rubble.
And I surely
love you, since
I speak in
some Pentecostal language,
and let my
hair blow wild across my face,
and never ask
if you have a flashlight.