THREE POEMS

The White Sands Motel

1.

Here there’s no rainy season.
Sun scalds my forehead,
yet the pool is empty. Beside it,
a toppled table, its glass surface shattered.
The asphalt is too hot for bare feet.

2.

Far away: white hillocks
and white dunes under a deep
blue sky. Swirling winds rake grooves
into the dunes. A glass of wine
in one hand, I lower my binoculars.

3.

An old man sweeps sand
from the motel’s lobby. Still,
sand is everywhere: in my blazer’s pockets,
under the glass of that photograph,
on my plate of tangerine sections.

4.

What do I see through binoculars?
The charred remnants of a campfire?
A vermilion lizard skittering
across a dune? A putrefaction on the sand
resembling a man? I sip my wine.

5.