It’s not just hot here
in the inferno of gold-fire sandstone,
those stolid walls that hold the heat of eons.
Copper ramparts twist to liquid
illuminating and reflecting,
daring you to describe water.
Today it is titan rust, a metallic illusion of shadow
we could endlessly follow.
Tomorrow it is obsidian,
the type that warns you to stay dry
when clouds dance grey in the unending sky.
Yesterday, the yesterday of a century ago,
the water rushed full of mud and silt and love:
red was a fitting name
for the river of sand.
Now an out-of-touch obelisk hovers
at the gate
hollowly bellowing its worth,
scrambling to regain
its deceptive prominence
as if cement were a mere momentary bother
to the invention of holy water,
the desert moves yes.