In the infinite sky that
cleaves apart earth and heaven,
up there presides no Polaris of my own.
The brightness above my path I owed
only to that red desert Sun,
my sails full with the plaintive whinny
of a filthy Greyhound bus.

So much for the geography
that now separates me from the only home I've known,
this rocky bastion of hope and promise
grows more fond and familiar by the mile,
my first glimpse of the bluffs electrify my eyes as they
began to rise between the scratches of the bus window,
it is now my landscape,  mottled with cacti and
Indian lore,
I'll never know why it felt
like Home.

That damned red desert Sun,
too soon sinking, it
did so roughly in tandem with my heart
it fell asleep behind the blushing canyons,
no sooner than when scenery became
little more than postcard cliché.

My enthusiasm grows tepid while
the sands of my adventure cool in the moonlight
another time, I whisper fondly,
leaving behind the unrequited
warmth of the sand and the
clarity of the skies.
between the gentle hum of the road and the
occasional yawn I thank her,
as I let her sands disappear beneath the tires.