Coming Home
Salt Lake City
heat rising off the asphalt
below a third floor balcony
with a view
southwest to Chaco.
Across the shopping mall
looms the Olive Garden,
white people slow-dining
at a furious pace.
Money flows
from air-conditioned hands,
menu choices tempt
in dizzying abundance,
a leisure class
dines casually
with non-leisurely appetite.
In Bloomfield, New Mexico
at the Conoco station
in the heat of late morning,
I am struck
by the bustle,
the gas nozzles
constant in and out,
the sun-darkened workers
busy about their day.
I sense the earth’s slow energy
many layers beneath their feet,
the quiet presence of a shrine
unrealized in their lives.
Perhaps wild ponies
are always prancing
in slow-motion
across the mesas.
Perhaps speeding
on the freeway
we are also just walking,
the power grids
in the distance
leading to ancient signal fires.
Perhaps we are still breathing
cool spirit
even in our frantic doing.
And this sadness
can give way
to the faith that no worlds
will be vanquished,
that stillness resides
even in this indulgence,
this blistering flight from
our own selves.