Wheel of Fire, the Mojave

What is this white intensity

swallowing me as the night swallows and now disgorges

only Jonah was rocked and the night

is sorrowful music

but this is something else? What is this absence,

immersion as faith is a kind of immersion,

a thirst for light in the true air?

Look at the sun’s jailbreak over the violent

walls. I’ve driven all night

to find myself here. Look at the gypsum desert,

elements scattered like 7-Elevens all the way to Death Valley,

the way L.A. reaches into it, one hundred miles or more.

I’m talking about America, the thing itself,

white line unreeling, pure distance, pure speed.

I’ve driven all night

from fear of the darkness that would seize me if I stopped,

even coffee at a truck stop, even water. Look

at the wraiths of stars,

Buick Electras rusting in the freight meadow.

It is the ghost of the light that moves me.

I’m talking about the half-seen,

dawn and evening, desert orchids,

coyotes coming down to the river to drink.

I’m talking about the thing itself,

what rises in the night like anger or grief,

language-less, blistering and overbrimming

as a river coming down from the mountains

to die in the sinks of rushes and alkali,

the absolute purity of light or intention,

memory of grace, seagulls canting windward

above the Great Salt Lake—

           the sun, the desert,

the weight of the light is staggering—

until even the flesh of our days falls away,

ash from a cone, fruit from a stone. Even now

when the whirling miraculous

wheel in the sky has risen and vanished at first light,

gears of a huge engine, starlings

drunk on oxygen—

        when the wheel

is gone and I am alone with the willows

at the edge of the utterly desolate

Mojave River.

     I’ve driven all night toward the basin

of angels. I’ve driven all night without understanding

anything, need or desire, this desert, neon

signs remorseless as beacons.

           I’m talking about America.

I’m talking about loneliness, the thing itself.

I’ve driven all night to find myself

here. Look around you,

even now look around you.

Dawn breaking open the days like jeweled eggs,

Joshua trees crippled by this freakish rain of light.