Desert towns are all encampments –
Huddles under a massive sky.
They sprawl there, baking in the sun,
Like abandoned rolls of giants’ dice.
It’s a bleak and a companionable thing,
Lying stranded beneath far Heaven
With only friends for strangers,
Only strangers for friends.
Hard not to wonder what sudden bugle-call
Would have them tearing up stakes, harnessing ponies,
Knocking the rust off the hulks that dot their yards,
Fitting in engines, welding on wheels,
And setting off, in orderly lines, across the desert,
Ready to make home in the next camp they find.
