In the Middle of the Mojave

garish colours in a sandbox
and the deep Carolina blue sky
that has seen all
arched its back overhead
and watched
as the current flicked out
and the beds of the pools started
drying

the yucca here are special
you cannot touch them
they feel like straw
they bend a little
and crinkle

the dust motes on the concrete land come from above
there is dust everywhere
dirt.
the parched concrete floor is white and
marbled with dust-banks
places where the wind
reached down to slow itself
as it careened through the
empty spaces.

you can see the gaps in between slabs
places dotted where foliage began to
soak through.
they are wrinkles.

filled with sixty year old dirt
and slips of straw.
there is quiet decay.
there are arcades
foam and sun falling through their ceilings

there are hanging signs waiting.
in the middle of nowhere
you cannot read them
aloud.