Crossing Toward X

LOLLIE BUTLER

I can never sleep without a fix on the stars,

those strangers two flights up crossing toward X.

            Orion stares down as though he expects us to revolt,

            roll off the planet into his domain.

Perhaps that’s our fate—

to be screwed into the sky—40-watt bulbs—

never knowing what the big sign reads.

This is a city I create each night, as I walk out,

new arguments of traffic, sirens breaking glass

in the universal dream, strange dogs barking

at me from the other side of chainlink.

Clouds hang loose and late from Denver,

L.A., Phoenix.  City smoke adds

to the glow like a wrangler’s cigarette

            before he swaggers on.

Not far to the south of these oil-smacked streets,

the desert begins in earnest;

not just potted cholla at the all-night station

            selling gas, beer and air—all we need to flare

like a pitched matchstick.

Somewhere a mine shaft exhales

its coppered breath, a ghost town

line of fence posts picks the wind’s teeth

and a nightjar settles on a rusted wagon wheel

            going nowhere

under this come-lately light

where time was squandered panning for a dream

west of everything.

Beyond these mountains, out of freeway lights,

Hohokam fire rings sink deeper into the earth

while well-intending anthropologists

            toothbrush the crumbs of time.

Intent and futility keeps civility intact, dawn

and dawn again and I am sealed

inside an envelope of now,

the now of impending rain;

of this neighborhood crumbling

like announcements of last month’s yard sales

            tacked to the poles,

The now of my father’s breathing machine—

            so many beats to the measure

            but not the least bit poetic—as he rises

on one weak elbow to give up

            in fits of coughing the smoky years of his life.

Let the all-night prowl car and the insomniac cross paths

and let the black cat scale the wall to safety,

let the woman ease back into childhood,

            whispering into her father’s good ear

            the only starry lullaby

she can remember.


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