Stand there on the rock of the mountain top you man with a beard so soon white-shot you woman with pity as old as the wars you child with eyes as young as the stars behold this wind southwestern sprung that wrenches the desert all month long that blows out your pity and blows out your eyes and bleaches your beard like the noon moonrise behold the sand the burning cloud blown on the desert like ash like gold behold each other your tender bones strung in the wind so long from home then go down plunge to the purge of sand vanish together hand in hand Used with the permission of Copper Canyon Press, P.O. Box 271, Port Townsend, WA 98368-0271, www.cc.press.org |