In the desert there is a pocket that
Is the poem. A watery bubble on an
Arid surface, like a fingertip on a
Voided screen that sparks to touch. The failed eavesdrop.
It looks like life, or its mimesis, here
Among the droning decadence of dune
After dune, shrugging, as chrysanthemums
Shrug at a burning, chrysanthemum sky.
It looks like life, or its oasis. But
Now at the door, at the edge of enter
Or invade, of live as though no desert
Has ever known you, fathered you, been you,
Prayed for you, to behold the bubble now
From within, the starry dome of pleasure
Above you, the palms’ perspiring mists
Made from quietly purring machines, no
Drones overhead, no schoolchildren scream;
Thus the poem, your one true savior, loves you.