The mountains in the distance,
dancing from the heat,
are
my only sentries, though it is doubtful
that
the silicon fraternity of modern man
would
wish to storm this hermitage, or any at all.
The
sand is carpet enough, the rocks ample tables.
Cactus
and sage, accents in the latest earth tones,
were
here when I declared myself a holy squatter sans deed.
Everything,
I learned, is solar-powered and well lit.
At
night, the stars do not compete with spangled harlots
who
gather round a lamppost like moths
in
a town that once called me its favorite son.
The
bleached bones of prophets—rats and birds—
give
the space its ambience of endless eons.
Reptiles
bury themselves beneath oozing stone
in
the hope of noonday resurrection.
Alone
but not lonely, I read books committed to memory,
but
I do not recite them aloud, do not wag my tongue
like
the merchants I left in Babylon.
In
silence there is communion and grace,
though
with whom or what I simply do not know.
~William Hammett
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