Below me a city and its dreams,
distant mountains, valley beyond valley,
a sky without blemish, as far
as the eye can see . . .
And though the road descends
into a world of crime and speed,
ignorance and shame, here,
this moment, I surrender
both my personal history
and the probable absurdities to come,

uncertain if this road is a beginning
or an end, or in each moment both
beginning and end, the still point
unguessed behind the windshield's safety,
a nebulous veil
shielding the traveler
from all that cannot be seen or known
in the slow advance
of an illusory
self embraced or abandoned.

But what does it matter?
Yes and No cannot stand scrutiny.
They chase themselves round and round,
breaking into tears of laughter
and grief. Thinking will not
solve the problem, though one must
think.

We are here, and that's the point
of the mystery. Wherever the road leads
something immense and unrequited
struggles within us . . .
to speak, to sing, removed
from the melody of Life
and the music of the hours.

From this mountain perch,
I gaze into the twilight,
wishing the desert would teach me
its sad and beautiful song.