[Nothing we love is
what we love—]
Nothing we love is what we
not strange then that this land could be
so loved. Inside a darkened theater vintage VistaVision clouds
pile up against a VistaVision sky.
The ochre-red desert shades into distances purply- blue.
What is this world but a world of left-overs,
the desert the mesas the high self-regarding buttes the wildflower & sagebrush
testaments to worlds gone by—
rock-time ledgered in the rock-face.
The searchers ride past it furious for what isn’t there.
Men in war paint know this & must die.
Do bleed sweetly onto the desert floor.
Do savagely demise.
With all the strong, short-timers thundering by.
[Jon Thompson teaches at North Carolina State University where he edits the international, online journal, Free Verse: A Journal of Contemporary Poetry & Poetics and the single-author poetry series, Free Verse Editions. His first collection was The Book of the Floating World (2007); his most recent book is a collection of lyrical essays, After Paradise: Essays on the Fate of American Writing. More information can be had at www.jon-thompson.net]
Copyright © 2011
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