I live in a sanctuary of rock

and desert

and uncorrupted sky. 

It does not seem a place fit for life;

there is little water,

ferns do not carpet forest floors,

nor are there seas and seasides to lull by

and think of fishing and swimming

and wading in cool waters. 

But here in these catacombs of seas

that were

and forests after them

and lakes and ponds and puddles;

in this land where volcanoes hummed

and green things grew

and frogs wallowed and despaired

of disappearing water

and croaked of evaporated love;

in this place there are rocks,

now there are rocks and rocks,

and layers of rocks upon layers. 

A desert is not a place devoid of water,

it is where water has been and gone.

Where dying lakes carved stone,

wind continued

and so after the waters were memories

and green things ghosts,

wind whistled

and honed

and sculpted the rocks upon rocks

and the layers

into red sepulchers and half-formed castles

for kings that never were. 

It seems that every spire

and tower

and steeple

and pillar

that flitted but once in an architect’s mind

but found not stone

nor craftsman

nor patron

nor reason to be;

each of these found their way here. 

A great junkyard is this desert place. 

To the west, leftovers from Chartres,

to the south, fragments of Angkor Wat,

in the north St. Peters and Paul stand,

and to the east, are so many castle walls,

eating halls,

clock towers,

and hand-forged rock flowers

that I shrug when I see Europe. 

I’ve seen it all, I say,

for I’ve seen the dumping grounds

and therein lies the sum of man’s activities. 

What art or architecture one man decides to showcase a thousand more pieces go scrapped

and scattered

by men too unsure,

too proud,

too poor,

or too drunk

to show a single piece. 

I’ve seen the dumping grounds, I say. 

It’s in the desert. 

                                                In no particular order they lie

some propped against striated walls,

some toppled upon others,

some dangerously resting on ledges,

while others appear made to fit.

                                                And so I slum

and dare to see the rocks

and towers

and seabeds

and stone flowers. 

I wander through halls and ascend up staircases

and rest in amphitheaters

where I sometimes hear whispers of Aeschylus. 

I peer from towers and survey the horizon

and see the ruins that could not be more beautiful were they

fitted and bejeweled. 

They were not painted by a hand

yet come in a thousand shades of red:

—rose—

—ruby—

—carnation—

—rubicond—

—incarnadine—

—wine—

and some a red so faint

it’s as if marble dusted with crimson flour. 

As the day passes a thousand more reds seep

from the thousand reds

and each dances a flickering twirl

before the sun passes on. 

Tomorrow,

he bellows,

I’ll come again tomorrow,

he shines. 

And each of the thousand upon thousand

consent to the next shade with its own hue

and prove that a single color can be infinite,

glorious,

and beyond the appreciation of eyes that see. 

And though all day there burns a fire

of reds upon reds

there is a time,

in the gloaming,

when for an instant

all the reds give way to gold. 

A time when the sun,

before leaving

to far foreign lands,

comes to Earth

and in an impassioned farewell

embraces each rock

and all reds

and shows the affection he holds

for this wasteland

of all that could have been but wasn’t,

and the desert

where things once were but are not now,

where everything beautiful

—but passing—

has found a special sanctuary

to burn all day

in obeisance to the searing warmth

and blinding glory

of the one that celebrates all things red;

in a gesture,

a dazzling hug,

all things become golden. 

Gold that bleeds.