descent

by walter conley

dropping out of yucca
off the lip of the bowl
that holds
the high end
of the low desert

(a desiccated landscape
that shimmers
smokes
and
tricks the eye
luring with the the promise
of shelter
which is never there
when you arrive)

you sail through
the pale prickly ruin
of desert hot springs
where they have
no alleys
so they make their own
from hollow cars
trash
piles of cracked shingles

where cops drag women
off red-hot benches
while their men thank god
they’ve lost
the will to fight

you only want to leave
keep
your eyes on the road
the distant freeway
your goal
thinking,
fuck this place

and

just when you think
you’ve left it
behind
you spot the billboard's
cry for help

there a soldier smiles
down at you
and bold above
his clean-cut head
not the word GOODBYE
or even COME AGAIN
but the low desert
high crime
of
MURDER