Ojo Caliente
Where the chug of boiling water pumps
and spills its acids, oxides,
to dye the ice-slabbed hillside orange-red
desert colors, we loll naked in a pool
lulled half-asleep; first drugged in a broth
of minerals shot from the earth´s core,
then dragged down to a nether place
where the chill of air is salt, sunwarmth, sugar,
until what is known is only what is sensed:
far down below there´s no stations
of the seasons, no days passing, only this
thrashing deeper, coupling, uncoupling
in unsunned wetness where all beginnings are.
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