Tuesday, February 15, 2011

Oases



define travel as stopping between wastelands
places most hurry through not wanting to stop
significant emptiness under huge blue skies

miles of land no one wants
hellride tires eating road underneath
plummet down hills not scenic but staid

flat range between cities
long width of sprawling valley
that can't see the mountains on either side

stopping place where gallons well up
making small marks on indecipherable maps
someplace between wastes

what labels desert as wasteland is no-one wants it
or wants to live there, except hermit-crab rare birds
who dwell to get away from people

where waters spring out the clichéd palm
flocks of trucks at their troughs
sudden noises of gathering

but where no-one stops is where I like to
listen to desert silence, alkaline emptiness on the wind
airing out the mind, letting stillness fill up
inner rooms of mercy only just abandoned
coming to rest to scent the perfume of the desert


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