1
Off the road, in a place of dry dirt and rock, a thin
obsidian fragment which, held
between sky and eye, is the only lens
needed. The temperature, close
to 110 degrees. The wind, when it arrives, sets
the scorpion on fire, chars
Rachel’s painted nails. The sky’s
obsidian-darkened flames crackle. No
future here, only
a gigantic now. Fire shimmers. Everywhere.
2
At dusk in another era’s cool, smoke rises
from stones. I look
at the Gila monster; he
looks at me. After killing him, I live
off the fat stored in his tail. Again
