In the wetlands of Las Vegas—
To the East, below the mountains—
Are innocent melodies
And naïve fantasies.
Among the tall grasses—
Gently rustling, quietly sighing—
Do mysteries lie
And fey lusting.
Within the roaring arroyo—
Old waters, Grey waters—
A reverie deafened
And set rippling.
Paths we walked—
Smooth asphalt, imported oak—
Gone cold now
In a winter we shared.
January 9, 2017
