The expanse of lights fills up my vision;
I am awakened flying higher than Phoenix and
in the darkness of midnight I recognize no one
in the deserted city. We descend and drive through
the dark blurry streets that criss-cross the city’s wings
and soar on towards death in the Sonoran Desert.
The landforms that took a hundred thousand years
or more to form are recreated in sterile plastic for
a passing travellers palms to pass over, the palms’
leaves void and disperse the city lights in shapes
of sharp feathers out across the through-fares.
Beneath, the dark asphalt approaches the Colorado Plateau,
and begins the ascent out from
this endless circus of fiery lights.
The mimicry of a heart quakes beneath this city,
frightened, sustaining a thousand new refugees
each month — yet in a hundred years this place, fated
to become a wispy dune, will be a stronghold only
populated by dusty metal bones and mummified memories
of life, cracked and dried like those in Pompeii, trapped
in eternal gridlock for a drop of water, a drop of life.
There is oblivion outside my window as we drive the
steep mountain passes away from the immortal city.
Only phantoms of people and cars roam the street;
hope is rumored to be forlorn, the grace of the modern city
is about to spontaneously combust —
and as the old desert sun rises and gives hot breath to a new day
I can see the ravens playing in the burning crimson light.