In the pink light,


    haloes of cloud form over the mountains;


    lightning, two valleys away,


    then, not an hour later,


    the explosion of thunder.


    The roadrunners


    pecking for breadcrumbs on the porch


    have long since fled into the rabbitbrush,


    into the endless ocean of grass.


    Driving in every direction


    down licks of red road, I have lost


    myself in a militarized topography;


    everything named after army units,


    generals, scouts, miners…


    The Dragoon Mountains,


    Cochise Stronghold; defunct


    Gleeson and Pearce,


    weird, rusty ghost towns, the only


    non-derelict structure


    for miles, the local school,


    its polished windows and well-kept lawn,


    a source of great local pride.


    No mountain monograms


    for these desiccated whistle-stops,


    no giant Q or C or W in bright


    white paint to mark


    the township''s still functional


    sorta functional breathing, no


    carving for them


    into the planet''s bark;


    and thus they are blesséd


    to me like no other;


    every successful city


    is a flimsy affair with civility,


    its eternalness, like Paris or Rome,


    mere hypocrisy.


    MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN,


    BUY REAL ESTATE! Hail follows rain.


    Nearby, the township of Sunsites,


    once billed as the safest


    spot to survive


    the inevitable nuclear winter,


    actually topped Soviet Russia''s


    list of high-priority targets… Enter


    the Orange Duck Candidate.


    A haboob sweeps across


    the Valley of the Senile.


    In a week, the mountains


    have switched from brown


    to purple to green.


    The desert is human


    endeavour''s most fitting graveyard;


    the slow bleaching,


    the gradual eroding into sand,


    the heat stifling sound as it leaps into the air.


    IT CAN''T HAPPEN HERE. But it always does.


    By André Naffis-Sahely