Scipio

I couldn’t make the trip this time from Vegas
to the Valley without pausing there. A curt town
 
in the ravine, green with wind-blown, wild-brush;
a haunting vacancy is only a glance
 
to either side of me. The imprint of mountains
lends verdancy to the cleft between sky and vale.
 
The silence of Scipio droops below the lazy clouds
(unarticulated love, a vague charm) and intrudes
 
into my long car ride home. I am as much a stranger
to you as you are to me. Atop a skeleton-striped tree
 
a sparrow, puffed and cocky, croons perfectly
the sound of purgatory.