flowering black for herself in the desert.
And he asks her-
he asks O'Keeffe, expert in doorways
and illusionary doorways-
"Which way to the bus stop?"
And her eyes are a mirage
of home abandoned,
(but he never had a home he liked.)
She asks him,
"what can you give?"
"a feather, never flown, pocketed
impossibilities
is all I carry."
"Lucky, eh?"
And her eyes are a mirage
of orange water.
So, then she asks him,
"where are you going?"
"I hear the water of life runs downhill,
I am going to the valleys."
"Chasing, eh?"
And she points with her paintbrush
to the sinking sun.
"The bus stop is that mirage."
And never tiring he trudges on his way.
cdzhouse 