When the winds blow north from Mexico
And ghosts of coyotes prowl,
There’s a sense in the air that what’s not there
is more important than here and now.
Across the desert there seems to be some markers of place and time
But upon investigation, under brush and dune no evidence abounds.
Vague proof of dimensions, third or fourth, fades as the sun goes down.
Some shifting shadow draws the eye, but dust brings on a tear.
The night breeze shifts the edge of reality, inverting here and now
To forever and maybe, or just a dream, or where we ought to be.