Desert

The great clock wrapped around my wrist says quarter-after-four. The great domes are coming apart — poles in bags. The shrines, reflecting heaven, giving focus to Truth, are coming apart and we are packing the pieces in plastic boxes.

The Buddah in the center of our circle is now desert air. Soon the avatars camped here, snoring, sprawled, hot, in love and in pain, will one by one rise, as the beeping trucks back up and load up, and they will be replaced with desert air.

The man who sobbed at Temple, his tears rolling rivulets through the dust — straps on his Apple Watch on, powers on his phone.

And I, the dancer in the dust, the servant of Medussa, tongue wild with desire, crystalline eyes fierce with longing, soft with sorrow, I who saw my face reflected as nothing but sky, who crawled in an out of a great skull like a goddess-magot, who sprinted and shrieked through the glowing night, who unfurled fingers in swirls of cold morning dust revealing a prism to the astonishment of a friend, I who shook with sorrow, writhed with pleasure, banged on a saloon-piano and lifted my song to the morning. I must help. Put poles in bags and the Buddah in a box.

I must take down the breathing purple lotus and put her in the bag marked “parachutes”. I who learned of the sacred symmetry in my synapses and bones, I must help, cart buckets, unhook tarps, unstake, unhinge, empty, coil, wrap and lift.

Our home is packed into a box truck. Poles, dishes, tubs, basins, pumps, rugs, cushions, paper lanterns. The Buddah, And Kuan Yin.

These white boots which landed softly in moondust with every elated and sorrowful step will swirl with detergent and return to black Addidas.

I am watching the stars sail past my window as the dust whirls in the wake of our tires.

The desert broke then exalted us. The ancestors swirled in dust torrents as we made love, made tea, searched for our headlamps. We will dig for dollar bills when we see the sign for Chai Tea and Chinese Food, as the gates of Black Rock City, turn to desert air.