In
your dreams, you swim.
You
tumble in the raucous waves
submerging
and twirling
or tilt into deep cool places
and
looking up see the sun
fracture into spangles.
You go back abashed.
Water
beads from your green skin.
You
cannot hide your joy
from neighbors who've not
gone swimming.
from neighbors who've not
gone swimming.
What
you have is good. A view
of the aspen-whiskered mountains
of the aspen-whiskered mountains
and
water enough — if you are fastidious.
One child survived. Gilded flickers
and red-tailed hawks craft nests
and red-tailed hawks craft nests
in your arms. Bats nuzzle the night.
You
have carefully read two centuries
of
sunsets, and it is quiet, and the stars.
The
desert swells with creosote perfume
before
it rains but still sometimes
you
dream of swimming.