Ignition on, the key worn down
almost straight now,
on the dashboard,
a pack of Camels
lying on maps among rock samples
and tufts of tamarisk.
Shirtless, you lean forward, turn the key,
a birthmark flutters over your 6th vertebra,
the engine roils in the guts of the Subaru,
purple-gray mountains in the distance.
We lurch through corridors of sand, pitted tracks,
past tiny signs to Fault Wash, Vista del Malpais,
a hard right, the key falls to the mat,
the motor, oblivious, roars on.
At the cliff, the clawed Badlands before us
baked reddish-gold, dusk gathers up the warmth
and the waxing gibbous moon rises.
We lie on our backs in the sand,
the trajectory of our eyes lifts to Perseus,
son of Zeus, who rode the winged stallion,
and fights on in the night sky.
We dream the stories of the ancients
from this cluster of our beginnings.