Four Days North And Miles To Go

Outside there
Are low-hanging clouds
That are clouds
And heavy blue.

It is odd now: being
"South" of what
had been South. I do
not like to think
that They are
"North"

And ibises stalk delicate
Breakable white. Soft little
Mourning sounds the hum
Of an air conditioner rush
Of oncoming lightning

In four days we shall
Drive past there is
Already a pink tinge
Under my eyes:
A city of
Ghosts this
Time I shall
Not sleep

The lizards are
Fixed to the
Wooden posts, waiting
For rain

My white horse is a Hyundai
Santa Fe, grazing on
Humid-soaked
Concrete