Well, I'd like to finish with some more new poems.
This first one was written in Taos, New Mexico.
"The dirt part of the road is five miles, left, up short,
steep hill, left.
Second definite "Y" road winds around.
Road follows pole with two black arrows, where there's only one.
The first time you're frightened,
then you can't live without it.
Several windmills confessing "I need you" once or twice,
but it does not happen twice.
Oh, ocean, I'm sorry I met someone
when I was with someone else.
Straw in the walls and thunder every afternoon.
When it is noon, the poor pooling of men in the state
penitentiary.
On the onyx leg of the drive to Albuquerque,
dirty nails and painted cars along the freeway.
The lone road, the dirt branch, and the tiny view--
but this is not that branch, nor heat.
This is the brain walled.
The church at Rancho de Taos, exorcised 15 angles in the sun.
Wind on the corrugated metal eyes,
on the horse stalled motorcycles,
the motels of love on a Thursday,
on a Saturday, all afternoon.
Violent beauty-- is that what beauty is about?
Past psycho pickup trucks, a windmill on the right.
This is that dirt part of the road
where their love in certain circumstances
might be superfluous.
And immediately after that ardor,
this technicolor plum hastened to that dusk, these friends,
one other.
It is unusually cool for July.
Not for a moment have I forgotten
the infinite tiny poem bolting the arroyo.
The fable of the red, the drench of the white,
the felony of the yellow, the cleavage
of the black, cool summer night in the desert;
boulevard of stars."