in unison,
the wind beating the fence
surrounding the giant intaglios, where
you told me there was nowhere to step
anymore, that the whole
desert started miraging as a geoglyph.
And what was lost
before by time
or destruction returned
in the form of a man etched
on the desert floor,
and you chose
two lucky stones to take home
to remember the black desert—
the Area of Critical Environmental Concern
you read about on the placard that pictured
where we stood
from space.
Driving back home,
saguaros peaking the freeway
beside legions of stucco houses
like a popup book
you turned to say maybe we should still have kids,
and I said maybe the desert would last to greet them.
Blyth, California, November 2020