Jess Conway
here in the high desert

I-40 passersby see red mesas.
Ombre-veined arms of earth roll by,
a flipbook.
But we are the ones moving,
missing petroglyphs
while surfing fm stations.

The viewfinders of our cameras
steal still images.
But we are the ones moving,
missing the endless string
of imperfection, in Navajo rugs we bag
at gas station trading posts.

We spill sunflower seeds and sow no wildflowers.
We are the ones moving,
a montage of past and present, here
in the high desert.

<< return to the Table of Contents for New Series #5: Summer 2018, Volume 3 Number 1