Having turned left at Albuquerque

We were allowed to see

purple hills reflecting purple waves

azure surf, white white foam

of course no one knew

whether we had come from west

or east, so saying ‘a left turn’

leaves a lot shall we say

unresolved.

Having turned left at the heart

of the Southwest and given

up on the promise of Seven Cities of Gold,

Santiago del Conquistador

sunning in Spain beckons

Borrachitarme Voy

It isn’t as though anyone

listened much in those days —-

in movies slinky post-War women wore

tight-woven soft black straw hats

lightly brimmed, alluring veiled,

and post-War girls wore shiny black patent leather shoes.

Inside their soles Buster boys and magic frogs

plucked promises that only Let’s Pretend could keep.

Halcyon days of Ralston and Cream of Wheat

were not at all like these where everything up

for grabs goes tediously unresolved. Still

alfalfa fields nod quiet in the blaze of July sun,

and arroyos flood sudden violence down down

and never reach the wine-drunk sea.

Every season someone’s brother drowns.