Las Cruces, New Mexico

Who begged me to be here
beneath fields of open sky,
the earth a griddle top

and the spires of green
not wholly unwelcoming.

We are hand in hand beside an oblong
of water evaporating at a rate of rays.

Too much. Too pleasant.

My favourite dog carves a divot
beneath a piñon tree,
lays down in the cool layer of excavation.

What hand put that tree right there for her
and her right there for me to see

and who once stood here with eyes
on those Organ mountains so like hands reaching

before city and sprawl lay
claim to the dirt and here hummingbirds

take their sips
beside the ants, an endless line from sugar water
to each night

with flashes of light
and the dark’s white rumble.

The fans above our heads
dissipating history and heat.