rd king DOT net : In California

In California

Across the Arroyo from San Miguel


In sheets a light was; the sky had already fallen
behind some sullen, beige hills, leaving

an edgeless gray expanse.  Full was the floodplain
with black cottonwoods, many leafless willows

in robust, aerial excellence, and a tree
I could not identify had burgundy-colored bark;

their combined and clustered upreach filled
the sunken confines of the arroyo, and, like

bronchia, ripped and channeled the breeze as
it caromed through the mission canyon; and below,

this town, this fully unsuccessful town squatting
across the arroyo with small houses on small

lots and very small vegetative successes, only
the opuntia was vigorous among the abandoned

autos and the billowing tumbleweeds, the green
winter sage and its undoubtable urge to grow:

I could not escape this striking and plaintive
landscape.  The hills were so smoothly weathered

and barren.  Where the river had cut against them
the land dropped away, exposing yellow sandstone

and pebbles and rock—native and eventless history.
The trees concealed the river; they were liege

to everything, and relentless.  Before town
they rose and below town they rose and past town

they rose to the edge of the arroyo: skeletal
deciduous emancipations; I watched them stand.

I drove while the light spread in sheets, like
postcards, causing me to address the fractured

pieces, and to question with impromptu earnestness
my ability to travel this land with such ease.

Was I being duped by these cattle-colored hills?
Instances of pastoral harmony herded my thoughts:

I lived in an adobe hut and did not drive to work
each morning.  Horse thieves hid in the draws

of the ranchos and sometimes brutalized
the inhabitants of town.  This land was familiar

and I was aware of its articulate plainness:  yet,
dusk alarmed me and I had visions in the half-light

patterns on the adobe walls.  I wore a loincloth
and threw stones at those things that upset me.

I stood on the bluff before the new tract homes
and chanted prayers across the arroyo.  Emissaries

from the mission struck me with canes and spread
dung in my hair.  A light spread in purled sheets

and adhered to the adobe and caused me to have
visions upon the weathered bricks.  I worked hard

in the fields of the mission and worshipped
the land and cursed their names and cut my feet

upon their rocks.  I stole a horse and gave up
my name forever.  I rode through the many trees

and crossed the river where I was honored and welcomed
and a seeker of refuge:  I detected no change

yet everything was reduced to earnestness and
it was not spoken; boys made all of the music.

The light fell in sheets and a foiled town
stood across the arroyo.  God had a fine name

and it was not spoken.  Some men drew signs
on their bodies and some did not.  Some men

sat beside the campfire and stared at the adobe
walls.  It never rained.  It was very difficult

for the river to flow.  Trees fractured the arroyo
into pieces; and everyone was requited and poor.




 
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Collected Poetry

In California

Across the Arroyo from San Miguel
