ELEANOR ROSS TAYLOR

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In this waste
     marked Unknown in your old geography,
even the approach rationalizational,
     first mile salt desert—
out of your element—or element evaporated—
     (This tent’s my home . . . )
you sleep by day
     one arm flung over face
or, tent put up in rain, and
     having brought just your pen—
breathless, as if invited to a bash, and late.

Go.      In his urn of cast-off words
     the dead man entertains.
Over bedouin laughter
     you’ll catch a thump—only
a dented bucket blowing across a yard,
     from the rough deck of that ship
some grandsire took to get here?
     From that well another dug in wilderness?
Fluid reunions—
     yearning, untravelled forebears,
yearning, travelled heirs.