Creation Story

Here, in the hollow of the desert’s hand,
where rain is just a rumor, pocking
the sand so seldom and so hard
it cracks the ground, a tortoise
gazes up from its umbrella carapace
the gaudy black and yellow of a flag.
Every night, a river of starlight
chisels at rock faces, abrades
the limestone with its diamond edges,
stars carving hoodoos and spires
like medieval cathedrals, twisted
like the cypresses in a painting
by Van Gogh. The cliffs’ two fists
knead a hot stream of starlight
the blue of a gas flame, shape it,
cup it between rough palms.