west of the sandias

•

       beyond the wide airport windows
  broken gravel pours away
toward a jumble of ranch houses
              sunken in desert haze

    light slides down from the gray
  mountain slopes
                with infinite patience hovers
   over the tile roofs
                      turquoise and blood

  in a park two blocks from the hotel
a sign lists rules for dogs
                      hours of operation
   no children on the swings
                             on a weekday

   the streets have few stoplights but
many crosswalks
                      flagged in yellow
   petroglyphs of the imagination

      early morning the day's heat
    has not yet found its house
  on a sidestreet a painted statue
                                       of a madonna
                            hands extended in grace
         in the gateway of a nursing home

     empty parking lots at the edge
  of downtown the impeccable
                                  bank buildings
               intrude in the sky
    ill-fitting suits waving around money

      among the quiet houses a rooster
    crows announcing morning
      in a small tree in a schoolyard
           a green hummingbird flits and blurs
        tiny as the pale green leaves

     a desert shower starts
                   and stops after five minutes
        through the windows bells
                              bubble garrulous
      voices of the living
             who will always be with us

      the town closes early for business
   the buses stop running after 10:30
                                        at night
       by the curbside pink flowers tiny
     and ephemeral as morning mist
         on a stiff and fragile stalk
                 sound of tears falling
                         from an invisible guitar