I Come from the Land of My Father.

Greetings from the land of fertility
where water waits your hot-soaked lips
and red flame birds sing
songs of stucco houses
of late bonfires
of eyes flashing in the sunset


We bring you pitchers of cool water
made of clay mixed with hay and damp stream dirt
full of the same water
it took me twenty one years to find,

maybe more.

Now I lie in the bush, my back on the green
among cool friends I sought for years
among the family I peel my eyes for.
They run on the heated mirror of horizon.

I lie among shoots of new growth pushing up through sod.