to rain red on the cliffs,
you come.
Running
down and then up rough arroyos,
brushing past ephedra and creosote
as a pale breeze cools your sweaty neck,
you come—
flushed and thorned.
Needing nothing and expecting less.
And even before you arrive,
we have said good-bye.
Even before we count
all the water catchments on our white
sandstone mesa, or
find the flaked knife in a cave.
But maybe you love me a little?—lying
beside me near the cliff edge
200 feet high
in the blackening air, as moon and stars
flick on—knowing
you’ll soon need to hold my hand
back down the pathless rubble.
And I surely love you, since
I speak in some Pentecostal language,
and let my hair blow wild across my face,
and never ask
if you have a flashlight.