Santa Fe

The sky is bluest

in the clean, thin mountain air

of Santa Fe.

Seven days in the city

of Holy Faith,

but my faith is anything but holy.

It's 3:30 a.m.

The cottonwood's arms scrape the window,

as rain thrums a web 

and unsettles a lover in a mad tango.

My woman sighs and says,

"I've always loved you."

I roll out of bed

and, in the dark, I reach for my clothes.

By 4:30 a.m., I'm on the road to Albuquerque.

My thoughts are on the hot air balloon

that, for a while,

will suspend me above the earth,

above the rattle and hiss of the world,

above the candle burning on the horizon.

The clouds are icebergs

floating in an azure sea

carried past Sandia peak.

"How's the weather in Chicago,"

the pilot asks.

"A Heatwave is blasting the city," I reply.

"My brother says the sky is hazy, dirty."

"Do you like the Midwest," he continues.

I shrug, " I love the city."

The roar of the flame drowns my voice,

and the hot air balloon rises.

I think of the adobe house

at the foot of Cristo De Sangre mountains

and the soft, warm body waiting for me.

"I drove by Chicago back in '94," the pilot says,

"So, how do you like living in the Midwest?"

The balloon brushes a treetop,

the Tampa Bay newlyweds squeal.

I shrug, "It's okay."

No one listens.

Coyote yelps, and his brothers begin to sing

and the moon dissolves.

He streaks across open space, 

and the young lovers scream with excitement.

He lifts his tail, and excrement streams through the air.

"So, how do you like Chicago,"

the pilot asks.

I mumble, "I loved a woman there once."

But no one cares,

as the hot air balloon descends

and the land of enchantment unfolds

before an ascending sun.