Before the golden moons are blown out of the sky
And the crickets die.
Babylon and Samarkand
Are mud walls in a waste of sand.”
RAIN IN THE DESERT
The huge red-buttressed mesa over yonder
Is merely a far-off temple where the sleepy sun is burning
Its altar fires of pinyon and toyon for the day.
The old priests sleep, white-shrouded;
Their pottery whistles lie beside them, the prayer-sticks closely feathered.